The Holiday Cabinet
by Elf Eye
Summary: Holiday-themed stories involving characters from the "Nameless One" series will be posted here. Primary characters: Anomen, the Rivendell Elves, Estel, and Mithrandir.
1. Chapter 1: Elf Gift

**This site will be the location for holiday-themed stories. I will move over the appropriate chapters from "Elfling Interludes" as the various holidays approach, and new holiday-themed chapters will be posted here.**

**Vocabulary**

**Ælf****gyfte—Elf-gift (Old English)**

**Askasleikir****—Bowl-Licker**** (Icelandic)**

**Bjúgnakrækir****—Sausage-Snatcher**** (Icelandic)**

**Gáttaþefur****—Door-Sniffer**** (Icelandic)**

**Giljagaur****—Gully Imp**** (Icelandic)**

**Girithron—December (Sindarin)**

**Gluggagægir****—Window-Peeper**** (Icelandic)**

**Hurðaskellir****—Door-Slammer**** (Icelandic)**

**Idhrendí—Thoughtful Lady (Sindarin)**

**jól****—Yule (****name of pagan midwinter festival;**** derived from Old Norse name for the month ****ýlir)**

**Jólakötturinn—Yule cat (Icelandic) **

**jólasveinar—Yule lads**** (Icelandic)**

**Kertasníkir****—Candle-Beggar ****(Icelandic)**

**Ketkrókur****—Meat-Hook ****(Icelandic)**

**Laufabrauð—leaf bread**** (Icelandic)**

**Pottaskefill****—Pot-Scraper ****(Icelandic)**

**Saer—Bitter (Sindarin)**

**Skyrgámur****—Curd-Gobbler**** (Icelandic)**

**Stekkjastaur****—Sheepfold Sneak**** (Icelandic)**

**Stúfur****—Stubby**** (Icelandic)**

**Thavron—Carpenter (Sindarin)**

**Þvörusleikir****—Ladle-Licker (Icelandic)**

**Chapter 1: Elf-Gift **

"The perfect size," exclaimed Arwen.

"The perfect size!" Glorfindel echoed in disbelief. "Arwen, we shall have to go back and fetch an entire team of horses to drag this home!"

"The perfect size," Arwen repeated stubbornly.

Anomen tried next. "Arwen," he wheedled, "the jól log must fit into the fireplace of the Hall of Fire."

"The _main_ fireplace of the Hall of Fire," Arwen corrected. "'Tis a big fireplace."

"Not big enough for this trunk," returned Anomen.

"We could cut it down to size," argued the little elleth.

"Arwen," Anomen explained patiently, "It is not fair to ask the horses to drag unnecessary weight. Nor is it fair to us—for I do not believe that _you_ shall be the one sawing this log to fit the fireplace! Why not choose a log that is already the right size? Remember," he added slyly, "that we still need to pick out just the right tree—aye, and trim it, too. The longer we spend over the jól log, the less time you will be able to spend on hanging ornaments."

This argument had the desired effect.

"Oh," exclaimed Arwen, "I think I see a nicer log over there!" She floundered through the snow toward the other side of the clearing until Glorfindel scooped her up and lifted her onto his shoulders. With a few great strides, he stood by the side of a log that several months before had been hewn from a windfall tree and left to dry. Arwen's first choice had been an entire tree trunk that had fallen only recently and so had not yet been sawn into manageable pieces.

"An excellent choice," Glorfindel said approvingly. "Not only is it the right size, but it is seasoned enough to burn cleanly, with little smoke."

With his feet he pressed down a patch of snow and set Arwen down upon the cleared spot before setting off for the place where they had left Glorfindel's horse and Anomen and Arwen's ponies.

"Anomen," Arwen said after the elf-lord was out of sight, "let us gather mistletoe."

"I think we have quite enough mistletoe," smiled Anomen. "It is hanging everywhere. Elrohir made sure of that, for he vowed to festoon every spot under which an elf-maiden might pass."

"Yes, he means to kiss them all," Arwen giggled, "but he has missed a spot. There is no mistletoe hanging before the door to Erestor's chamber."

"I don't see why there should be. Erestor avows that he wants nothing to do with the jól festivities."

"He says that every year," Arwen replied, "but he spends more time than anyone supervising the preparations."

"He spends more time than anyone supervising no matter what the occasion," Anomen retorted. "He revels in supervising, but does not revel in the revels!"

"He will this season," Arwen replied confidently.

"Oh, and are you a prophetess?" teased Anomen.

"Someday I may be," Arwen replied serenely, "for my grandmother is Galadriel. But it takes no seer to know that mistletoe ought to hung before Erestor's chamber. Haven't you noticed how fond he is of Haldir's sister?"

In fact, Anomen _had_ noticed. Haldir's sister had been sent to study in Rivendell for a time, for she was exceedingly bright and had grown restive in Lothlórien.

"There are not books enough in Lórien to satisfy her curiosity," Galadriel had written. "Erestor's library, on the other hand, is famous, and I am sure it contains volumes sufficient to keep her occupied for quite some time."

Erestor had gladly accepted her as a pupil, for she was dedicated to her studies, as could not be said of any of the elflings—no not even of Anomen, who, while diligent, would still rather have spent his time on riding or archery. Like Elrohir and Elladan, Anomen would complete his required exercises and then escape to the training field, there to practice with sword and bow under the eye of Glorfindel, who, if strict, nonetheless oversaw the elflings' preferred activities. Meanwhile, Haldir's sister—Idhrendí was her name—remained in the study, poring over books and discussing them with Erestor. The tutor would ensconce himself in one of the seats abandoned by the elflings, and he and Idhrendí would sit with heads close together, reading as one from the same volume. This was not Elrohir's idea of a romantic interlude, nor even Elladan's or Anomen's, but Erestor always emerged from the study with flushed cheeks and a lively step.

'Erestor cannot help but kiss Idhrendí if they come together beneath a sprig of mistletoe', Anomen smiled to himself. 'He would pretend to object at the custom, but I do believe he would be delighted at the opportunity'. Aloud, he said, 'Very well, Arwen. I believe close to this spot is a juniper tree lapped in mistletoe. Let us go seek it out."

Anomen took Arwen's hand, and off they set. He knew Glorfindel would not be troubled that they did not remain in the clearing, for the elf-lord would be able to easily follow their trail in the snow, especially as the sky was clear and did not threaten further snow that might obscure their tracks.

In short order they arrived at the juniper tree, which nature seemed to have decorated for the jól festival, festooning it with garlands of mistletoe. These mistletoe vines were laden with waxy white berries, the mistletoe almost unique among plants for bearing its fruit at the time of the winter solstice. As the two elflings neared the juniper, birds flew out, and Anomen called out an apology, for he perceived that the birds must have been feeding upon the mistletoe berries. He knew, however, that their task would not take long, and that the birds would immediately return once the elflings had departed. Indeed, he could hear the birds twittering and rustling in the scrub nearby.

Arwen picked out the sprigs she liked best, and Anomen drew his knife and carefully cut the stems and slipped the leaves into his pouch. Then he took Arwen's hand and prepared to return to the clearing. She pulled back, however.

"Arwen," Anomen began, "we must rejoin Glor—"

"Hush," she commanded. "Don't you hear it?"

Anomen listened carefully, and above the noise of the twittering birds he heard a plodding sound.

"A horse," said Arwen. "Someone is riding a horse in the forest, and it is not one of ours."

"It is not a horse, Arwen, but something very like a horse. It is donkey. Men keep them and sometimes breed them with horses. They are very sturdy and are often used as pack animals."

"Pack animals? Perhaps it is a trader, then."

Anomen shook his head. "So close to the jól festival? Men and Elves alike return to their families to celebrate at this time. 'Tis a poor season to travel but an excellent time to gather round the fire with one's friends and kinfolk."

"You don't suppose it is"—and here Arwen lowered her voice—"an enemy."

"I do not know, but I will find out. Arwen, hide beneath the boughs of that juniper tree."

Arwen obeyed at once, and Anomen was grateful for the mistletoe, for the cascading vines were like a curtain around the base of the tree. He paused long enough to obscure her footprints with his own and then crept in the direction of the snow-muffled hoof-falls of the plodding animal.

Peering out from a thicket, he spied the donkey. Upon it sat a pregnant woman. Swaying wearily, she rode with her head down, and the eyes of the equally weary Man who led the donkey were cast down upon the snow beneath his feet.

As Anomen watched, the woman shivered and drew her cloak more tightly about her shoulders. The Man sensed that something was amiss. He stopped and raised his head.

"You are cold. You must take my cloak."

The woman shook her head. "You are cold, too."

"I am only one must fend off the chill, but you must stay warm not only for yourself but for the child."

"It will do neither me nor the child any good if you perish," the woman replied.

Anomen could stay quiet no longer. "I have got a cloak," he called.

The Man held a staff in one hand. He dropped the donkey's leading rein and grasped the staff in both hands, brandishing it.

"Who are you?" he called warily.

Anomen sensed that the Man was no threat but merely wished to keep the woman from harm. He stepped from the thicket.

"I am Anomen," he said forthrightly. "I live near here. I am an Elf and am of an age when I begin to suffer less from the cold. You humans, though, are not well-equipped for a winter journey. Moreover, it will be very cold tonight, for there is no cloud cover, and you are far from any inn. May I offer you aid?"

The Man slowly lowered his staff. "'It wouldn't matter if we were near an inn," he said sadly, "for there is no room for the likes of us. We carry no money and little in the way of valuables. We cannot pay you for your aid."

"I didn't ask to be paid," Anomen replied calmly. "'Tis the season of jól, the season of gift-giving. I offer my aid freely, with no expectation of payment."

"Thirteen days of gift-giving," a little voice piped up. It was Arwen. She had heard the exchange and had come out of hiding.

"Thirteen days of gift-giving," she repeated happily. "Each day one of the jólasveinar will visit."

Thus far the woman, her weary face creased with fear, had said nothing, but now she smiled a little and straightened her back. "Jólasveinar," she said softly. "The Yule lads. I have not thought of those mischievous wights in a very long time."

"First comes Stekkjastaur the Sheepfold Sneak, who troubles the sheep," Arwen began to recite, "and then comes Giljagaur the Gully Imp, who hides in ravines during the day and creeps out at night to steal milk. He is followed by Stúfur the Stubby and Þvörusleikir the Ladle-Licker."

The woman laughed outright. "Yes, and then Stúfur's friends Pottaskefill the Pot-Scraper and Askasleikir the Bowl-Licker."

Arwen and the woman exchanged smiles. "I am quite certain that last year I heard Hurðaskellir the Door-Slammer," the elleth told the human confidingly. "I was afraid to get out of my bed, though. And I left out a bowl of cheese curds for Skyrgámur the Curd-Gobbler, and it was empty the next morning!"

"My folk used to leave out sausage for Bjúgnakrækir the Sausage-Snatcher," smiled the woman. "It has been long since we had the sausage to spare," she added softly, rubbing her hand over her belly. Then she rallied, smiling once more. "I was not so afraid of Hurðaskellir the Door-Slammer," she told Arwen, "but of Gluggagægir the Window-Peeper, who would try to steal whatever he could spy through the window. I always hid my toys on the day that he would arrive. I was also not fond of Gáttaþefur the Door-Sniffer, for he always managed to smell out our laufabrauð, our leaf bread. I didn't mind sharing our sausages with Bjúgnakrækir, for we ate them the year-round, but I was not so generous when it came to laufabrauð, for it was very tasty and we only had it at jól. I didn't mind Ketkrókur the Meat-Hook, either, but I was terrified of Kertasníkir the Candle-Beggar. I did not like waking up in a dark room!"

"Some of the jól lads are troublesome," Arwen agreed, "but they always leave behind gifts to make up for their mischief-making. This morning Stekkjastaur left me a fine pair of mittens. See?"

Arwen held up her hands, which were clad in brightly patterned mittens, and the woman opened up her mouth to praise their design. Suddenly, though, she blanched. Anomen spun about to see where she stared fearfully, but he relaxed when he saw that it was Glorfindel. The Man, however, raised his staff anew and stepped between the donkey and the elf-lord. Glorfindel held his hands out, palm upward, so the Man could see that he carried no weapon.

"I heard laughter," he said, "and came to join the festivities. For shame, Anomen and Arwen, starting the jól celebration without me! For I see that we have guests. Well, let us all hurry to the Hall, for I fear that we must wait until tomorrow to choose our jól tree. But tonight we shall have a grand time warming ourselves before our jól log."

Turning as if he expected to be followed by Man and Elf alike, Glorfindel strode back the way he had come. Anomen took Arwen's hand and began to follow, after a few steps looking back over his shoulder and smiling encouragingly at the humans. After a few minutes, he was glad to hear in his wake the plodding hoof-falls of the donkey.

Glorfindel was waiting for them by the jól log, which was fastened by rope to the harness of a great draft horse. "I think," he said to the Man, "that the horse will easily bear your wife. Your donkey is worn out and will make better speed without its burden. And speed is necessary, for see, the sun draws near the horizon, and once dark falls it will be bitterly cold."

"No cloud quilt," Arwen said solemnly. Erestor had taught her that after sundown a blanket of clouds would hold in the day's warmth, so that, odd as it might seem, the sunniest days were the ones followed by the coldest nights.

The Man gazed up at the sky and considered. He was still not certain whether to trust the Elves.

"You will freeze out here if you do not come with us," Anomen said worriedly.

The Man nodded. "Yes," he said softly. "We will. She will, anyway, and with her the child. Well, better to face an uncertain life than a certain death."

Glorfindel and the Man helped the woman from the donkey and carefully lifted her upon the horse. The humans' baggage—a small item—they also tied upon the horse.

"And now you must take Anomen's pony," Glorfindel said.

"I would not take a mount from a child," the Man protested.

"You won't," Glorfindel reassured him. "Anomen will ride on Arwen's pony, and Arwen will go pick-a-back upon my shoulders."

Mollified, the Man mounted the pony. The weight of the gaunt Man was no burden for the sturdy beast. The Man's legs did dangle, of course, and on any other occasion Anomen might have found the sight funny. The situation was too urgent for humor, however. The woman had rallied during her conversation with Arwen, but now she swayed so much that Glorfindel, who was walking alongside her, again and again put out his hand to steady her. At last, to hasten their progress, he untied the rope fastened to the jól log.

"We will come back for it tomorrow," he promised Arwen.

"I don't mind," Arwen said bravely. "Now we shall light the jól log after decorating the jól tree, just as we had planned all along. No, I don't mind at all."

"You are a very good child," said the Man, who had overheard the exchange between elleth and elf-lord. "You need not fear that Jólakötturinn the Jól Cat will ever eat _you_!"

"No, but Elrohir is afraid of him," Arwen replied. "My brother leaves out a bowl of milk every night during the jóltide so that Jólakötturinn won't gobble him up. _I_ think a bowl of milk is not enough, though, for Elrohir is _very_ naughty. Indeed, I do not know if a bucket would suffice!"

By now they were nearing the Hall, and Glorfindel bade Anomen ride ahead. The snow had been well broken on their way out, so Anomen urged the pony into a gallop. He rode straight to the door, telling the Door Warden that he had an urgent errand and that the ostler must see to the pony. Then he pelted down the hall to Elrond's study.

"You must come at once, Ada," he exclaimed as he burst into the room, not caring that he was startling several emissaries from Lothlórien. "Arwen and I found a human family in the forest, and the woman is with child, and she is very cold and hungry, and she sways on her mount, and I am afraid she will be very ill, and—"

"Run to the kitchen and tell the Cook to prepare some broth," interrupted Elrond, hurrying to a cabinet and pulling out various pouches and vials, "and then tell the Housekeeper to prepare a room in the House of Healing."

Anomen turned and ran for the kitchen. The Cook began to put on his best irate expression as soon as the young Elf crossed the threshold, but he abandoned the pretense as Anomen launched into an explanation of his errand. At once he called for more wood and began to bustle about the kitchen.

Now Anomen ran for the Housekeeper. Unlike the Cook, she did not pretend to be angry when Anomen entered her domain, but like that Elf she at once began to bustle about. She set the maids to heating water and sent Anomen to fetch several large stones from a pile outside her storeroom. "Put them in the fire," she instructed the young Elf. "When they are hot, we shall wrap them in cloth and place them all about the lady. That will warm her up, I'll warrant."

When Anomen returned with the stones, the Housekeeper bade him to hasten outside once more to bring in more wood. When he returned with his arms laden with logs, Glorfindel and Elrond were just helping the woman into the chamber. Nearby her husband hovered anxiously, but neither he nor the Elves were permitted to remain. The Housekeeper accepted the medicines that Elrond proffered, but then sent even him away. "Shoo, the lot of you," she commanded. "After the Lady has bathed and gotten dressed, I will send for you." Then she called back Anomen. "You stay just outside the door," she instructed him. "I shall send you to fetch Lord Elrond the minute it is proper."

Feeling very important, Anomen was still standing by the door when the Cook arrived bearing with his own hands a steaming bowl of broth. He delivered it to the Housekeeper and then turned his attention to Anomen.

"Didn't see you at dinner," he said accusingly. "Have something against my cooking?"

"Oh no, Master Cook. I have nothing against your cooking. We were still in the forest at dinnertime. That is why I did not come to the table!"

"Oh, indeed," the Cook said skeptically. He drew a biscuit from his pouch. "Prove that you have nothing against my cooking—if you can!" He handed Anomen the biscuit. The elfling took it gratefully, for he really was very hungry. In two bites, it was gone. He looked hopefully at the Cook.

"I don't know as how eating one biscuit proves much of anything," grumbled the Cook. He pulled out another biscuit. "Let's see if you can repeat the performance."

He handed Anomen the biscuit, which went the way of its fellow.

"I begin to be persuaded," said the Cook. "Still, you will eat biscuits, yes, but I may ask whether you will eat other of my cooking. You had better come to the kitchen later tonight so that I may put you to the test."

Anomen promised that he would, and the Cook departed. A little while later, the Housemaid poked her head out the door and bade Anomen fetch Lord Elrond. Anomen went at once to Elrond's chamber, where the elf-lord and healer waited with everything in readiness. He thanked the elfling and then looked searchingly at him. "You are tired and famished, are you not? Go to the kitchen and get some supper, and then take yourself to bed."

"I have been running errands for the Housemaid," protested Anomen, who was no longer quite so hungry.

"You have done great service today, Anomen, but if you do not rest and eat properly, then I shall have two patients."

Anomen could not argue with Elrond's logic, and reluctantly he trooped off first to the kitchen and then to the room he shared with Elrohir and Elladan. His foster brothers were chagrined at having missed out on all the excitement.

"I wish we had been with you," Elrohir said enviously.

"Arwen begged and begged you to go with her," Anomen pointed out, "but you wouldn't."

Elrohir and Elladan both looked sheepish.

"Erestor says to give of ourselves is the best jóltide gift," Elladan sighed. "I wish we had followed his advice. If we had, we would have been in the forest today, and the adventure would have been ours."

"That is a very poor motive for gift-giving," Anomen said loftily. "You ought not to calculate the benefits you will receive in turn," he went on in the same virtuous vein. Before he could continue the sermon, however, he was hit from either side by pillows. After a vigorous exchange of these cushioned missiles, the three elflings at length succumbed to exhaustion and fell into a sound sleep populated by dreams of the jólasveinar.

The next morning, Anomen was the first to awake. Remembering the previous day's events, he sat up abruptly. At once he spied a puddle of milk upon the floor. Nearby were three new pairs of boots, two identical in size and one—for Anomen—slightly smaller than the others. "Elrohir! Elladan!" he exclaimed. "Giljagaur the Gully Imp has come in the night. He has left us boots!"

The twins were awake at once. "Well," grinned Elladan, "there won't be any milk for breakfast, but I don't mind."

The three elflings pulled on the boots and admired them before stomping in the puddle of milk to see whether their new footgear was waterproof. Then they marched off to breakfast, leaving in their wake a trail of milky footprints. As it turned out, there was more milk at the breakfast table, so evidently Giljagaur had not stolen it all.

After breakfast Elrohir and Elladan accompanied Arwen and Glorfindel to the forest to retrieve the jól log and choose a tree, but Anomen returned to the House of Healing to run errands. On the way he encountered Elrond, who had just visited the lady.

"How does she fare?" Anomen asked anxiously.

"Well. She is warm and rested and has taken not only broth but some foods more substantial. I feared she would lose the child, but I think if she remains in bed she will not go into labor before her time. She would like to speak to you, Anomen, to thank you for your kindness."

Anomen hurried on eagerly, for he was curious about the travelers and welcomed the chance to speak to them.

When he arrived at the sickroom, he found the door open. Within, the Man sat by the woman's bed, holding her hand and caressing it. The two smiled when Anomen appeared in the doorway.

"Welcome, master Elf," exclaimed the Man. "We are very much in your debt."

Anomen blushed a little, for he was not used to being addressed in that fashion. Self-consciously, he approached the bed. The Man gestured toward a chair. Anomen perched upon it.

"You are called Anomen?"

"Yes, master Man."

The Man laughed. "My name is Thavron."

"That is a Sindarin name," said Anomen, surprised.

"We are from Gondor. There are some in that land still familiar with the elven tongues, although the number declines with every generation."

"Your name means 'carpenter', does it not? Are you a carpenter?"

"Yes, as was my father and his father before him."

"And your name, lady?"

"Saer," the woman said softly.

Anomen was even more surprised. 'Saer' meant 'bitter'. It was an odd name.

The woman smiled at his bewilderment. "My life has been bitter and yet not so," she said wryly. "I am with child, which should be a cause for celebration, but it is this child who has caused my exile."

"I do not understand."

The Man took up the tale. "The child is not accounted as mine," he explained, "for it was conceived before our marriage was celebrated. My kinsmen commanded that I put aside Saer, for they argued that the family would be shamed by the birth of a child conceived outside of marriage. But I refused to put her aside, and for my disobedience we were driven out of Minas Tirith. We traveled first to Rohan looking for a place to settle, but the folk of that land were loath to take in a family shunned by their allies in Gondor. Then we journeyed through Dunland, but the folk there are poor and closed their doors against us. I do not blame them! They are hard put to feed their own families."

"Where will you settle, then?"

"We hear tell that there are prosperous settlements to the west of here."

"Those would be the villages of Breeland," said Anomen thoughtfully. "We trade with the Men of those settlements. I will ask my Ada to write on your behalf to the chief inhabitants. For his sake, they may find employment for you."

"Thank you," the Man said gratefully. "I hope the jólasveinar are good to you and your kin."

"They already have been," declared Anomen. "Stekkjastaur brought me a new cloak, and last night Giljagaur left me these boots."

As he spoke, he was suddenly seized with the wish that the jólasveinar might leave gifts for the child that would soon be born.

Anomen was of course old enough to understand that the gifts that materialized in his room each night were actually placed there by Elrond. He and his foster-brothers pretended not to know this, however, for playing along was great fun. Moreover, they did not wish to spoil the game for Arwen, who really did believe in the existence of the Yule lads. Now Anomen thought of a new game: creeping into Saer's room and leaving presents without her spying the gift-givers. He was sure that Elladan and Elrohir would embrace this game eagerly, for the twins delighted in any sport that required stealth and guile. Anomen grinned and excused himself, saying that he had some mistletoe to hang.

After fastening the mistletoe above the threshold to Erestor's chamber, Anomen hurried to the room he shared with the twins and began to rummage through the chest that stood in the corner of the room. This contained clothes that he and the twins had outgrown. Soon he had scattered a great many garments upon the floor. He sat cross-legged in the midst of them and held up one garment after another. Unfortunately, while too small for the elflings, they were much too large for a newborn, and Anomen wanted to offer gifts that the human family could make use of immediately upon the birth of the child.

While Anomen was thus occupied, Elladan and Elrohir returned from fetching the log and the tree.

"You have made a great mess," Elladan observed, looking about in surprise. "Why ever have you dumped out the contents of the chest?"

Elladan's amazement was justified, for Anomen was always neater than either Elladan or Elrohir.

Anomen quickly explained his idea of playing at being jólasveinar, and as he expected, Elladan and Elrohir were enthusiastic at the notion. To creep in and out without being detected, that was the sort of thing a scout did, and they longed to attain the status of scouts.

Next Anomen explained that he was at a loss as to what gifts they might give. Elladan held up a tunic, turning it about.

"You are right that it is much too big," he said thoughtfully. "Besides, it is worn here and has a stain there. But we can still make use of it."

"I don't see how," exclaimed Elrohir. "Too big, too worn, and too stained."

"Don't you remember how many nappies Arwen needed," Elladan reminded him. "Let us take the worn and stained garments that are not suitable for wearing and cut them into nappies."

Anomen and Elrohir agreed that this was a good idea. New parents would welcome nappies.

"Only," Elrohir added, speaking softly, "let us not cut up this one tunic." He held a blue garment on his lap and gently stroked it. "Nana made this tunic," he said wistfully. His fingers traced the embroidered deer that frolicked on the sleeves.

"There are plenty of garments to choose from," Anomen said quickly. "Let us set aside any that are special to you and your brother."

The three elflings sorted through the clothes, taking care to set aside any that Elladan and Elrohir wished to keep in memory of their mother. Soon they had a pile of garments that could be cut into pieces.

"But will we only give them nappies?" Elrohir asked when they were done. "Isn't there anything else we can give them?"

Anomen held up a cloak that had not been placed in the nappy pile. "We have got new cloaks, even though our old ones were in good repair. Our old cloaks are too small for the Man but would fit the woman. Let us pick the nicest one and leave that as a gift one night."

"Nappies and a cloak," said Elladan. "We have missed the first two nights of gift-giving, but eleven are left. If we leave the nappies one night and the cloak another, nine remain."

"Let us look in Arwen's chest," Elrohir suggested. "The clothes she has outgrown are so much smaller than ours. They are too large for a newborn, of course, but we could ask the Seamstress to alter them."

The elflings leaped up and pelted through corridor, agilely sidestepping the servants who bustled about with linens and towels, for it was washing day. They burst through the door of Arwen's chamber, flung open her chest, and began to rummage through it. They set aside such garments as Elladan and Elrohir knew had been sown by their nana and sorted through the rest. Soon they had a pile of tiny garments in good repair. (Arwen had been easier on her clothes than they had been on theirs!) Unconsciously, forgetting that they were meant to be warriors someday, the elflings began to ooh and ah over the little nightdresses, the tiny bonnets, and the miniature booties.

"What are you doing in my chest?" a voice demanded. Abashed, the elflings looked toward the door. There stood Arwen, clutching an evergreen branch, for she had just come from decorating the tree and had carried off a bough that had been trimmed from it.

Anomen thought quickly. It occurred to him that Arwen might eventually see the gifts that they gave the humans and so would realize that they came from Elves and not from the jólasveinar. So Arwen would have to be brought in on the secret anyway. Somehow, though, it had to be done without spoiling her belief in the Yule lads.

"The second of the jólasveinar came last night," he began. "Did he leave you anything?"

Beaming, Arwen held up a foot. Like her brothers, she had received new boots.

"But the human family received nothing," Anomen continued, "even though the woman has a little baby so close to being born that it ought to count as a child."

Arwen looked indignant. "Then why didn't Giljagaur bring them anything?" she demanded.

"I think the problem is that the jólasveinar set out before the humans arrived in Imladris. The Yule lads did not know that this family would be here and so did not know to bring them anything. Elladan, Elrohir, and I thought we would remedy the situation by pretending to be jólasveinar ourselves. We are puzzled, though, as to what would be best to give the family and the child. Here are all these clothes that you once wore as a baby, but we don't know which are the nicest." Anomen paused, looking troubled. All of a sudden, his face lit up. "Oh, I know! _You_ could help us, Arwen!"

"Yes, please! please!" clamored Elladan and Elrohir.

"I don't know why I should help _you_," Arwen said severely, addressing Elladan and Elrohir, "for you wouldn't help _me_ pick the tree and Yule log. "But I don't mind helping Anomen, and I think it would be very nice if we did bring the humans gifts in the night just as if we were jólasveinar."

Arwen sat on the floor next to the pile of clothes and picked out a pair of booties.

"These are the warmest booties, and as the baby shall be born in wintertime, warmest is best."

Anomen nodded. "I think Arwen is right," he said to Elladan and Elrohir.

"Of course I am right," Arwen said haughtily.

Behind her back, Elladan and Elrohir tried to raise their eyebrows in the fashion of their father, but Anomen sent them a warning look, and they composed themselves.

Arwen continued to sort through the clothes. In the end, she picked out two nightdresses, three tiny gowns for daywear, a little coat with matching bonnet, the booties, and three swaddling blankets.

"Now we have more than enough," Anomen said happily, "for with the nappies and the cloak we have twelve gifts and only eleven nights to distribute them!"

That night they set their plan in action. Elrohir insisted on going first. With Anomen's help, Arwen had wrapped the mittens and the booties in a paper parcel bound with a ribbon. Clutching the parcel, Elrohir crept into the chamber given over to the humans. Stealing toward a table, he laid down the parcel and then crept out again.

The next morning, Elladan was chosen to loiter in the vicinity of the chamber to learn how the humans reacted. "What is that on the table?" he heard Thavron say. "It wasn't there when we went to sleep last night."

Elladan listened to the crinkling of paper as the humans unwrapped the parcel. "How beautiful they are!" he heard Saer exclaim. "Warm, too."

Thavron laughed. "It would seem that we have been visited by one of the jólasveinar," he chuckled.

Grinning, Elladan scurried off to report on the success of their mission.

The next night was Anomen's turn to play at being a Yule lad, and the night after it was Elladan's. Alternating in this fashion, the elflings succeeded in delivering each and every gift without once waking the humans. (At least, if they did ever rouse their guests, the humans never let on.)

The morning after the final gift was delivered, the elflings sat happily at the breakfast table as their father arose to address the company, inhabitants and guests alike. "Today is the twenty-fourth day of Girithron," the elf-lord declared. "The last of the jólasveinar came during the night, like his fellows leaving gifts in his wake in requital of his mischief-making. Tomorrow is the twenty-fifth of Girithron, the day upon which we have always celebrated a great feast in honor of the renewal of the year. The shortest days of the year are in our past, and longer days are in our future. No tasks are to be performed today save those in furtherance of the feast!"

Everyone cheered, not least the elflings, who were excused from lessons that day. Instead, all the livelong day they ran errands, helping wherever there was a need. For the Cook they fetched potatoes, for the Housekeeper they fetched table linens. They polished spoons, brought in firewood, and placed candles in sconces. They carried piles of plates into the Dining Hall, and toted buckets of water into the Kitchen. As night drew on, they were exhausted but proud of their contribution to the preparations for the feast. Soon they were asleep, visions of sugar plums and other delicacies dancing in their heads.

Sometime during the night Anomen awoke. He sat up and listened carefully. Without the room, rapid footsteps passed by. For a moment the elfling was frightened. Was there really a Jólakötturinn, a giant cat who would eat naughty children? Then he shook his head. No, the Yule cat was no more real than the jólasveinar, a tale told to both frighten and delight the very young. He slipped out of bed and pulled on tunic and leggings, determined to find out the source of the noise.

Suddenly he heard a cry. As he ran in the direction from whence it came, he heard another. Following the cries, he came to the Saer and Thavron's chamber. As he stood in the hallway, the door swung open and a servant emerged carrying a basin of water. "Ah, good," she exclaimed. "You just pour this out in the garderobe, will you?" She thrust the basin into his hands and abruptly disappeared back into the chamber. Anomen looked into the basin. The water was tinged pink. 'Blood', thought Anomen, frightened anew. 'Is Saer dying? Is the baby dying?'

Anomen forced himself to walk slowly to the garderobe so that he did not spill the water. Once he had poured out the water, however, he ran back toward the chamber. In the hallway he stood anxiously listening. It sounded as if there were an animal within, panting. Again the door opened. This time the servant held a bundle of bloodstained linens. "Be a good lad and carry these to the laundry," she exclaimed. With a heavy heart, Anomen did as he was bidden.

For the third time Anomen came to stand outside the chamber. Someone within still panted. Then he heard one last cry. For a few minutes it was very quiet. A little light came into the corridor from the rising sun, and suddenly, an infant wailed. Anomen skipped a little, swinging his arms happily. Then he returned to stand by the door. It opened and Elrond looked out. "Would you like to greet a new inhabitant of Middle-earth?" he asked softly. "Oh, yes!" Anomen cried eagerly. "Do not be too loud," Elrond warned him.

Anomen tiptoed into the room. Saer looked exhausted, and the Housekeeper was wiping the sweat from her face. She smiled a little, however, when she saw Anomen, and she gestured at the cradle that stood by the bed. In it, swaddled in a blanket that Anomen himself had sneaked into the chamber, lay a sleeping infant.

"It is a boy," Thavron said, "and his name shall be Ælfgyfte."

"That means 'Elf-gift," said Elrond.

"It is not a Sindarin name like yours," observed Anomen.

"No," said Thavron. "No, it is not. But he will be raised in exile, far from Gondor, and so I thought he had better have a mannish name. Still, he is a gift from the Elves, and I want his name to show it."

"He is a jól baby," Anomen said, grinning, "born in the giving season. Yes, Ælfgyfte is a perfect name!"

"I am glad you approve," Elrond said dryly, "and now you had better go back to bed. You do not want to be too tired to enjoy tomorrow's festivities—today's festivities, I mean." For now the sun had fully risen. It shone in brightly at the casement.

Elrond bade the new parents good day. Then he took Anomen by the hand and led him from the room. The excitement over, Anomen was yawning like a baby himself.

"When you brought Saer here," Elrond said, "I was afraid that her sufferings would send her into early labor and that the baby would be born too soon—always dangerous but especially so during the cold winter months. Fortunately, Saer was able to continue pregnant nearly a fortnight. The baby has still come a little early, but his chances have improved. I believe it very likely that he will survive"

Anomen yawned again. He was not really listening. Elrond smiled and scooped him up in his arms. 'There is more than one elf-gift in this house', he said to himself. 'Or gift-elf, as the case may be'. Just then he stepped around a corner and was fetched up short by an astonishing sight. There, underneath a sprig of mistletoe, stood Erestor—kissing Idhrendí.

'Miracles and wonders', murmured Elrond to himself as he slipped back around the corner before he could be noticed by the preoccupied couple. 'Miracles and wonders!'


	2. Chapter 2: A Light in Dark Places

**My narrative sometimes tracks Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**I would like to thank the following reviewers of Chapter 1**_**: Lady Ambreanna, Apsenniel, CAH, **_**and **_**farflung**_**. (A special welcome back to **_**farflung**_**, who has been on a reviewing hiatus.) I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit**_** and **_**The Lord of the Rings.**_

**Vocabulary**

**iell-nín—my daughter (Sindarin)**

**Chapter 2: A Light in Dark Places**

"Tell me again why we celebrate these eight days," Anomen begged Elrond as he stood by his foster-father. In his hand the elfling clutched a very special taper, for it was his turn to light the ceremonial candles in the Hall of Fire. The first night Elrohir had lit one candle, the second night Elladan had lit two, and tonight Anomen would light three. Tomorrow night Arwen, for the first time, would be allowed to light candles—four in all—and then, on successive nights, Elrohir would light five, Elladan six, and Anomen seven. On the final night Elrond would step in and light all eight.

"We commemorate the Star of Eärendil," Elrond replied, "and how that special light imbued a torch so that it burned for eight days. But you can tell the tale as well as I, for you have heard it many times.

"An Elf and his family were traveling across the Misty Mountains from Lothlórien to Imladris," Anomen began. "They were set upon by Orcs."

"Ada," Arwen interrupted, "why was the family traveling alone across the Misty Mountains instead of with a large company?"

"This was in the time when the Orcs had only first arrived in those mountains, so the Elf did not expect an attack." The elf-lord nodded at Anomen to continue.

"With his sword," Anomen recited, "he held off the Orcs, slaying many, but for every Orc he slew, two sprang up. He knew that in the end he could not save his family in this fashion. They must find a hiding place."

Here Elrohir made a face. "_I _shouldn't hide," he declared. His father frowned at him. "_I_ would," the elf-lord said pointedly.

Elrohir subsided. Elrond again nodded at Anomen.

"Now in those days," Anomen continued, "the Orcs had not yet spied out all the hidden passageways within the mountains. The Elf decided to lead his family to a cavern he knew of in hopes that the Orcs had not yet discovered it. It was nearly dawn, and under the Star of Eärendil he and his family fled for this hoped-for haven. They dodged about so that when they reached its entrance the Orcs had lost sight of them."

"The Orcs likely were still tracking them by scent alone," Elladan observed.

"True," agreed Elrond, "but the Elf hoped that the Orcs would weary of following the trail. That which the Orcs cannot see, they tend to forget. Go on, Anomen."

"When they reached the cavern," Anomen went on, "the Elf quickly kindled a torch, and before the family set foot in that dark place, he held up the torch and begged the Valar to have mercy upon them. Then in they went."

"I know what happened next," Arwen declared excitedly. Elrond nodded at her.

"They had no sooner set foot in the cavern," the elleth recited, "than the mountain rumbled and roared."

"Yes," interrupted Elrohir, "and an avalanche of rocks slid down and hid the entrance to the cavern!"

"Now they were safe from Orcs," Elladan took up the tale, "but the Elf feared that they would not be able to find a way out."

"Yes," agreed Elrond. "It is true that nearly every cavern in the Misty Mountains has more than one way in or out, but how were they to find an exit before their torch gave out?"

The elflings shuddered at the thought of being entombed within a mountain.

"Still," Anomen said, "they had no choice but to try. They began to trace the various passageways. One after another, each passageway led to a dead end."

"But they did not panic," Elladan observed.

"No," said Elrond, "they did not. Each time they reached a dead end, they would carefully retrace their steps, scratch a mark at the entrance to the passageway to show that it led nowhere, and commence exploring another tunnel."

"Day after day they sought an escape from the cavern," said Anomen.

"But they didn't know that they had been in the mountain for days," observed Elrohir.

"Indeed, they did not," said Elrond. "They had no idea how much time had passed. It seemed a very long time, and they were very weary, but the torch still burned, so they thought that less than a day had passed."

'To be underground for one day—but for over a week', murmured Anomen to himself, shuddering. Then he continued aloud. "When they at last discovered the way out, they were soon found by their kinsmen, for their arrival at Rivendell had been expected, and when they failed to arrive, searchers were sent out. It was then that the Elf and his family learned that they had been underground for eight days!"

"Ada," asked Elladan, "is it true that the moment they emerged from the cavern, the torch flared and then went out?"

"So it is said. It is also said that as the torch flared, a light shot out from it and ascended into the sky and that the Star of Eärendil, which had been obscured by a cloud for eight days, now suddenly shone brightly once again."

The elflings exchanged awed looks. Elrond smiled gently and gestured toward the candles. With great care and reverence, Anomen lit his allotted three.

The Elves in the Hall of Fire stood in contemplation of the lights for a time, and then, speaking softly, began to quietly slip away in groups of twos and threes. Anomen fell into step beside his foster-father.

"Ada," he said, "I cannot imagine being trapped within the bowels of a mountain. The Great Hall in Greenwood is dolven, but the ways within and out are clearly marked. Moreover, the Great Hall is not as extensive as the caverns beneath the Misty Mountain are said to be."

Anomen suddenly realized that he had revealed something about his former life. He ceased speaking and looked up at Elrond nervously. The elf-lord seemed not to have noticed, however.

"It is not so fearsome to be in a mountain," he replied calmly, "even when the subterranean realm is vast and the ways are twisting. On several occasions, I myself journeyed to Moria—or Khazad-dûm as the Dwarves call it—and I liked it very well. Of course, in those days it was well lit and bustling with miners, smiths, and traders. Still, even in these days of silence and dust, the grand halls must be impressive, their roofs supported by immense columns, ornately carved, that march so far into the distance that even an Elf has difficulty descrying their end. It is a place that would be majestic even in decay, and I hope that you shall see it one day."

Anomen wrinkled his nose. Moria had been a dwarven realm. It would be a foul fate indeed that took him to such a place!

"Moria was not the only subterranean city," Elrond continued. "On the border of the realm of Rohan sits the Dwimorberg, a mighty mountain. The Men who lived thereabouts failed to fulfill an oath to fight on behalf of Isildur, and he cursed them. In the face of his wrath, they fled into the Dwimorberg and dwelled there long, carving rooms from the bones of the mountain until their own bones mingled with the dust of that place. It is a desolate realm now, and the passages under the mountain are called the Paths of the Dead. It is said that anyone who could traverse them would pass beneath the White Mountains and emerge in the Morthond Vale. No traders have been tempted to make use of such a shortcut, however! A few Men, tempted by rumors of treasure, are known to have passed the Dark Door at the far side of the Harrowdale, but they were never seen again. Doubtless their bones are mingled with those of the former inhabitants. The Dead made that place; the Dead keep it."

"Truly, I am glad I shall never have to journey on those Paths" exclaimed Anomen. "Even the Star of Eärendil could not pierce the darkness of such an accursed realm!"

"Perhaps not," said Elrond, "but it is a dark place indeed that can be pierced by no light, and there is a prophecy that one shall come who may walk the Paths of the Dead and survive. For long ago Malbeth the Seer spoke these words:

Over the land there lies a long shadow,  
westward reaching wings of darkness.  
The Tower trembles; to the tombs of kings  
doom approaches. The Dead awaken;  
for the hour is come for the oathbreakers;  
at the Stone of Erech they shall stand again  
and hear there a horn in the hills ringing.  
Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them  
from the grey twilight, the forgotten people?  
The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.  
From the North shall he come, need shall drive him:  
he shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead.

"What do those words mean?" Anomen wondered.

"A time shall come when a kingdom will be restored—or not," Elrond replied enigmatically. "Much shall depend upon the loyalty and honor of not only the Dead but of those now living. If he who is called upon to fulfill the prophecy succeeds, the long shadow shall be dissipated, the westward reaching wings of darkness shall be driven back. There will be light in dark places."

"Including the Paths of the Dead?"

"Among other places," Elrond replied, his address still enigmatic.

They had reached Elrond's study, and the elf-lord went to the window and gazed out at the night sky. It was nearly dawn.

"Look, Anomen. See how bright the Star of Eärendil is tonight. It is always especially bright at this time of year, as if Eärendil himself were eager to join our celebration."

Anomen went to stand by his foster-father. As they stood side by side, the elf-lord uttered something so softly that even Anomen, with his sharp hearing, could hardly make it out. "May it be a light for you, in dark places, when all other lights go out," Anomen thought he heard Elrond murmur.

"Ada?"

"I am sorry, my son. I was remembering something Galadriel once said—something she will say, I mean."

His father was remembering something that had not yet been said? This made no sense, but between Mithrandir's obscure pronouncements and Elrond's, Anomen had become accustomed to ambiguity. In any event, he had no opportunity to ask Elrond to explain himself because Arwen skipped into the room. Because this was a special night, Arwen had been allowed to wear her Evenstar pendant, which was not permitted for everyday use. It shone in the firelight as if it were a star the equal of Eärendil's.

"Look, Ada," Anomen laughed. "Arwen's pendant could itself be a light in dark places, when all other lights go out."

Elrond looked swiftly at Anomen, and the elfling thought that an expression of sadness briefly passed over the elf-lord's face. Elrond instantly composed himself, however.

"It is indeed a pretty gem," Elrond said neutrally, "and Arwen shall have to take care as to where she bestows so precious a stone. Put it away, iell-nín, and put on your nightdress. I shall shortly come to bid you goodnight."

"But it will soon be morning," Arwen objected. "It seems silly to go to sleep now!"

"True, but you must sleep a little, or you will not be able to enjoy the fourth night of our celebration of light—and that would be sad, for you are to kindle the candles tonight."

"Oh," exclaimed Arwen. "That _would_ be a shame!"

"Indeed, it would be great shame if you should not be the bringer of light," Elrond agreed easily, but again Anomen thought that he saw a trace of melancholy upon the face of the elf-lord. Elrond caught Anomen studying him curiously after Arwen scurried off to change into her nightclothes.

"Anomen, would light mean as much to us without dark?"

"No," Anomen said decidedly. "No more than spring would be as special without winter. We should never know its lack, and so we would never know how precious it is."

"You are correct. Every joy is leavened with sorrow, and every gain is accompanied by loss."

"Do _you_ have a joy leavened with sorrow, Ada?"

"Eärendil was my father," Elrond said simply. "Yet if he had not been lost to me, a great good would have been denied to the Free Folk of Middle-earth. I must always remember that," he added, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I must always remember that in the days to come."

Anomen sat quietly, waiting for Elrond to return from his reverie. At length, the elf-lord shook his head a little.

"I am forgetting my parental duties," he laughed. "I sent Arwen off to bed, and I should send you off as well. When I go to tuck her in, I will stop in your chamber as well. Change into your nightclothes, and tell Elladan and Elrohir that I expect them to don nightdresses as well."

"Yes, Ada," Anomen said obediently.

He walked to the door, but before he stepped over the threshold, he looked back at his foster-father. Elrond sat gazing at a candle as it guttered—and went out.


	3. Chapter 3: Spring Will Come Again

**My narrative sometimes tracks Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**I would like to thank the following reviewers**_**: **__**Foxgurl0000, Lady Ambreanna, leralonde, **_**and**_** CAH**_**. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit**_** and **_**The Lord of the Rings.**_

**Chapter 3: Spring Will Come Again**

Anomen felt a mix of nervousness and curiosity as he entered the Dunland village. The one sensation he welcomed; the other vexed him.

'Foolish Elf', he scolded himself. 'Glorfindel is by your side, and behind you ride two-score of his best scouts'.

Reassured, he looked about. He saw many children peering fearfully from the doors of huts, and he relaxed even more. 'They are frightened, too', he told himself, 'and with greater cause. We are well fed, well clad, and well armed. The Dunlendings, on the contrary, are dressed in clothes that are threadbare; their cheeks are gaunt; and their arms rusty and blunted'.

The Elves drew up their horses and dismounted. The headman of the village approached and bowed low.

"You are very welcome," he lied, "although I do not know why you honor our poor village with your presence."

"We are passing through your land on the way to the Gap of Rohan," Glorfindel replied, "and we crave leave to camp here for the night so that we may celebrate the eve of the New Year in an inhabited place. We will recompense you for your trouble."

Glorfindel gestured toward the pack horses, and the headman licked his lips when he saw the sides of venison strapped upon them.

"Of course, my Lord," he said swiftly. He gestured toward a nearby hut, a little larger than the others and in somewhat better repair. "You are welcome to our best abode."

Anomen hid a grin at hearing the hut described as an 'abode', but Glorfindel replied gravely. "You do us honor, but my folk are accustomed to the tents that we carry with us."

Anomen was relieved. He suspected that the interior of the hut was none too clean. However, grimy as it might be, it was inhabited by at least half a dozen children, and he had felt uneasy at the thought that these young ones might be dispossessed, even if for only one night.

The headman led them to the village's threshing floor, an area that was flat but unused at this season of the year. Some of the Elves set about erecting their tents. Others began to collect firewood. In this they were at first assisted by a few of the older and braver of the village lads. However, when the Elves paid the boys with dried apples and handfuls of raisins, suddenly every urchin in the village descended upon the camp toting firewood. Even the toddlers presented themselves and offered twigs clutched in grubby fingers. Each and every one was rewarded with a handful of fruit.

With ample firewood, the Elves lit several cook fires and commenced grilling the venison upon spits. They also placed near the fires the baked stuffs they had carried with them from Rivendell in anticipation of the New Year's celebration. These included several pies that had been carefully packed into a wicker hamper. The children clustered nearby, sucking on the raisins and dried pieces of apple to make them last. When the pies had warmed a little, Glorfindel distributed them amongst the children, who carried them off to their mothers. Then the children returned to mark the progress of the venison. Tellingly, they carried trenchers. By now, the Elves were discretely nibbling on wafers of lembas, for it was plain that Glorfindel meant to give away their feast piecemeal. No one minded, however. The children were so very thin, and the lembas bread was very filling.

At length the venison was cooked, and Glorfindel began to carve it, filling every trencher that was presented to him. Then he shared out the scraps amongst the Elves, along with a few loaves of plain bread that he had kept back. The Elves sat cross-legged upon the ground, laughing and singing between bites. The venison was very good, as was the bread, and the small quantity of each simply meant that every bite was savored.

The meat and bread they washed down with mead and wine, which they did _not_ offer to share with the Dunlendings. "Men are foolish enough when sober," Glorfindel said, "but positively idiotic when drunk. A drunken Man is a rash Man, and a rash Man picks fights with those who are better armed than he."

So the Dunlendings had to make do with their poor beer, which emboldened them only a little and in a good way, for they sent their chieftain to invite the Elves to the singing and dancing and tale-telling that followed their own feast. "Do not be too elegant," Glorfindel adjured his scouts as they walked toward the village bonfire. "Sing the lively songs rather than the stately ones; perform the spritely dance steps rather than the measured ones; and tell the playful tales rather than the moral ones."

The Elves followed Glorfindel's advice, and as the evening wore on, Elves and Men mingled more and more freely. Rivendell voices joined in the refrains of mannish songs, and Men assayed elven dance steps. Such Elves as knew the Common Speech shared humorous stories, and Elves clapped at human tales. As the night wore on, urchins toddled amongst both Eldar and Edain, and Anomen laughed to see babies crawling in and out of Glorfindel's lap and tugging at his braids and his tunic sleeves. Glorfindel shrugged and grinned wryly when he noticed Anomen's amused glances.

The fire had been allowed to burn low, and the Elves thought the festivities were nearly at an end when with a yell a figure emerged from the darkness and leaped toward the bonfire. The children shrieked, and instinctively Anomen reached for his knife. Then he realized that the children were shrieking with excitement, and his vigilance gave way to amazement. The Man was dressed all in green. Green tunic, green leggings, green boots, green gloves. His head was completely covered by a mask whose every feature—skin, hair, and beard—was green. Holly and ivy and mistletoe were threaded into the hair and beard, which were fashioned from tangled strands of yarn. This green apparition danced wildly about the fire. As he cavorted, in one hand he brandished an axe; in the other he waved a sprig of holly. The Men and older boys leaped to their feet and swarmed around him, pretending to beat at him with staves. One of the Men—the headman, Anomen thought—wrestled away the Green Man's axe and tapped at his mask, knocking it off. Beneath the mask the Man's real hair, beard, and skin had been dyed as green as the mask itself. The villagers kicked at the mask, trying to keep it away from the Green Man but he danced his way through the crowd and retrieved it, holding it up high for all to see.

"The Green Man cannot be slain," shouted the Dunlendings. "Green cannot be slain! Spring will come again!" Cheering and clapping, the humans danced after the Green Man as he circled round and round the fire. "Spring will come again," they chanted. "Spring will come again!" Suddenly the Green Man threw the mask into the fire, which shot up and burned with a bright green flame. When it died down, the Green Man had vanished.

"They must have brushed the mask with a paste of powdered chalcanthite," Glorfindel whispered into Anomen's ear. "It makes an impressive show—Mithrandir uses it to color his fireworks, I believe."

A young girl wearing a chaplet of ivy and mistletoe stepped forward and began to hand out sprigs of holly to the children. Happily waving the leaves, the urchins were herded toward their huts by smiling parents who for this one night had forgotten the harshness of their lives in hopes of a better one. Adults and children bid the Elves goodnight, and their geniality was not feigned. As was customary, Glorfindel set a watch, but no one really believed it necessary.

The next morning the Elves awoke to find their tents coated with hoar frost. They also woke to the happy shouts of children still under the spell of the previous night's festivities. Even the adults seemed less dour than they had been when the Elves entered the village. The village chieftain was actually smiling when he came to bid them good morning, and in his hands he carried a basin of mulled cider.

"Good morrow, my Lord," he said, proffering the basin. "'Tis a cold morning, and I thought you Elves would welcome a hot beverage on rising."

"We would indeed," Glorfindel replied gratefully. The Elves took turns dipping their mugs into the basin. Anomen grinned when he saw the raisins floating in the spiced beverage. "Cast your bread upon the waters," Elrond had once advised him, "for you shall find it after many days." Well, they had cast their raisins upon the waters, and the raisins had floated back to them in a basin of mulled cider.

Glorfindel went with the headman to visit the village elders and pay a fee for the use of the threshing floor. The elders asked too much, as was expected, and Glorfindel offered too little, as was also expected. They haggled for as long as was necessary to maintain the fiction that real negotiations were taking place, and the palaver concluded with Glorfindel handing over more coins than would have been necessary had this been strictly a business transaction.

While Glorfindel haggled with the village elders, Anomen and the other Elves packed their gear. They did an extraordinarily poor job of it, for they overlooked many items. Anomen forgot a saddlebag that contained a very fine blanket. Lindir misplaced a spare pair of gloves. Thoron forgot to retrieve a pair of leggings that he had spread on the ground to air. Berenmaethor changed into a fresh tunic and did not remember to place the old one in his saddle bag. Taurmeldir had brought two cloaks, and he forgot to pack the one that he had hooked over a fence post at the edge of the threshing floor.

At length Glorfindel returned from the palaver and ordered the Elves to mount up. As they rode out of the village, children raced alongside them, cheering and begging for more raisins. The Elves had no more dried grapes, but they handed out the last of the apples. "Come back soon," shouted the children. Anomen smiled thoughtfully as he considered how fearful the urchins had been when the Elves had ridden into their village. "Glorfindel," he said, "we did not need to camp at that village last night, did we?"

"Strictly speaking, no. We passed several good camp sites along the way, and we will pass several more."

"Yet you chose to camp there, of all places."

Glorfindel smiled at the unspoken question 'why?' "Anomen, I think it good for a young Elf to learn as much as possible of the customs of the Men with whom we share Middle-earth. But that was not my only reason. Our passage through their territory was sure to be noticed. No doubt we would not have been molested, for we are well armed. Yet the Dunlendings would have resented our presence in their territory, and they would have been fearful of our intentions. Rather than provoke these emotions, better to create an opportunity for an exchange that would be profitable to both parties."

"Profitable to both parties? I see how the Dunlendings profited, but how did we profit—other than by learning of their customs, of course?"

"Is it not profitable to secure one's borders? To that end we have both encouraged and discouraged the Dunlendings."

"I see," said Anomen thoughtfully, "how we may have encouraged them to be well disposed toward us and therefore more likely to respect our prerogatives. But in what sense did we _dis_courage them?"

"Anomen, did you notice how the Men eyed our weapons? It does no harm to ride into a Dunland village from time to time so that the inhabitants may get a close look at our equipage. For the sight of a sharp sword may remind a Man that it is not good to take up weapons against a superior force. Thus, in the guise of a friendly visit, we encourage the Dunlendings to be our allies and discourage them from being our foes."

"You are very wise, Glorfindel," Anomen said admiringly.

Glorfindel professed amazement. "You are just noticing this?"

"The New Year brings many surprises," Anomen teased him back, "and among them is that Glorfindel is wise."

"But some things endure year after year," Glorfindel rejoined. "One of them is that Spring will come again. Another is—that you are a scamp!"

And the two rode laughing into the New Year.


	4. Chapter 4: Immortal Love

**This story is posted in honor of Valentine's Day. It is not intended to be slash (although there is nothing in it to prevent fans of slash from reading it that way--people may read it according to their preferences).  
**

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of "The Holiday Cabinet":**_** leralonde**_**, _Dragonsofliberty, Ilada'Jefiv, Tinnuial_**_**, Apsenniel, Lady Ambreanna, Foxgurl0000, and CAH**_**. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit **_**and**_** The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**. **

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for **_**Parallel Quest**_**, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Chapter 4: Immortal Love**

Legolas dipped a cloth in a basin of water, wrung it out, and laid it upon Gimli's forehead. The Dwarf opened his eyes a little. "Thankee, lad," he rasped through dried lips.

Legolas smiled gently at his friend. The Elf was kneeling by the side of Gimli's pallet, and now he stood up and went to the fire, where steam arose from a kettle. Wrapping a bit of cloth around the handle, Legolas picked up the kettle and poured some liquid into a cup. He carried the cup back to Gimli's pallet and helped the Dwarf to sit up. "I have steeped some willow bark in water," the Elf explained. "The infusion will both lower your fever and make you feel less achy."

Gimli took the cup in shaking hands.

"Careful," warned Legolas. "The beverage is hot." He would have gladly held the cup to Gimli's lips, but he suspected that his friend would have chafed at the notion that he was so helpless as to be unable to feed himself. The Dwarf grimaced. "Foul potion," he pronounced. "I like miruvor much better—aye, and the odor of that athelas concoction that Aragorn puts such stock in. Pity we have neither."

"I _am_ sorry," Legolas said apologetically.

"No! no!" Gimli said quickly. "It was right that you dosed those villagers."

Journeying to Edoras from Legolas's home in Eryn Lasgalen, the two friends had come upon a village newly settled by migrants from the south. The humans were still weeks away from garnering their first harvest, and their food stocks were low. On short rations, the humans were susceptible to disease, and it seemed that in every hut someone lay ill. Legolas had doled out the miruvor that he carried in a small vial—a few drops to every patient—and in the worst afflicted households he had crumbled dried athelas leaves into basins of hot water, the aroma lifting the spirits of all who inhaled it. Afterward Legolas and Gimli had ridden to the lands in which dwelt the descendants of Beorn the Shape-changer. Hearing of the plight of the villagers, these bee-herders promised to furnish the villagers with bread, honey, cheese, and butter on easy terms.

Satisfied, the Elf and Dwarf had resumed their journey, but soon afterward Gimli had fallen ill. "We are not sure of the mechanism." Elrond had once told Legolas, "but it seems that an ailing mortal can pass on his disease to another. It may be that some poison is exuded through the pores of the patient; it may be that breathing in the exhalations of the sick person is to blame. The mode of transmission may of course vary by illness."

Elves are innately cleanly folk and moreover are not subject to human diseases, but Elrond had lectured Legolas on the topic so that the younger Elf might be better able to safeguard the well-being of Aragorn. "Be vigilant, Legolas," Elrond had adjured. "Remind Estel to wash his hands both after voiding himself and before eating. Be certain that he does not drink water that has been tainted by the effluvia of others. If he is in a room where Men are coughing, try to discretely extricate him from the chamber."

Legolas remembered this conversation when he and Gimli had entered the disease-ridden village. Knowing that Dwarfs, like Men, were susceptible to sickness, the Elf had encouraged Gimli to stay without the huts when he entered them to dose the sufferers. Gimli, however, had insisted on accompanying his friend. "I want to help," he said stubbornly. Legolas was tempted to point out that Gimli would be of very little use if he became ill, but he refrained, for Gimli would have sulked at being reminded of his dwarven frailty.

And so Gimli had 'helped', holding Legolas's saddlebag as the Elf treated the sufferers, all the while breathing air tainted by the invisible particles that transmitted disease from one person to the next. A week later, at a feast in Edoras, the Dwarf looked listlessly at the very fine cut of beef that Éomer himself had carved for him.

"You are not hungry, Gimli?" Legolas asked in surprise. He had never seen Gimli lose his appetite. Even at the height of the War of the Ring, for Gimli to eat was as natural as for Gimli to breathe. The Dwarf approached his meals as if the dishes were foes to be felled, ferociously chewing his way through each course as if it were a battalion and his teeth scythes. After a skirmish with Orcs, surrounded by carcasses, the Dwarf would declare himself hungry, and even when Gandalf had been lost to them in Moria, Gimli had attacked his food with fierce determination, as if he knew that he must nourish his body in order to wreak vengeance upon the Enemy behind Gandalf's death. Now, however, with meat before him and a flagon of ale at his elbow, Gimli sat with his hands clasped, chin on chest, leaving untouched the plate piled with hearty fare. At last Legolas gave up urging him to eat and instead guided his friend from the table to their room, where Gimli crawled into bed and alternately shivered and sweated. "Ague," pronounced Éomer, who came to check on the well-being of the Dwarf whom he had once threatened to behead.

"Is it serious?" Legolas asked anxiously. "It can be," Éomer replied. "I will send our best nurse to tend him."

"No," objected Legolas. "He is contagious and may pass on the disease. I would not have illness sweep through Edoras. I will nurse him myself."

"You can manage?" Éomer said doubtfully.

"I have tended Aragorn through illness and injury. Can it be so different tending a Dwarf?"

"_That_ Dwarf, maybe," said Éomer, smiling a little. "At least let me help you undress him. His tunic and leggings are soaked with sweat."

Together the Man and the Elf succeeded in stripping the Dwarf of his garments and then drew a quilt over his shivering form. "His bedclothes will need to be changed from time to time," Éomer observed. "I shall have a servant bring you linens."

"Thank you, Éomer. Could you also send for willow bark? Elrond would steep this bark in water to make a potion that would lower Aragorn's fever whenever he fell ill as a youth."

"This is a remedy that we employ as well. I am sure that there is a stock of willow bark in Edoras, and I will see that it is brought to you."

The willow bark and bed linens were duly delivered, and Legolas commenced nursing in earnest. Patiently, he dosed Gimli with the infusion of willow bark, laid cooling cloths on the Dwarf's forehead, and encouraged him to sip the beef broth that Éomer ordered brewed and brought to their chamber. From time to time he helped the feeble Dwarf roll over so that he could remove the sweat-soaked bedclothes and replace them with fresh linen.

Yet in spite of the Elf's ministrations, Gimli continued to sweat and shiver, and it grew harder and harder to rouse him so that he might swallow the willow bark tea, while the beef broth he had stopped taking altogether. At last, the Dwarf would no longer open his eyes. He lay limp in the bed, and did not even flicker his eyelids as Legolas called his name with increasing alarm. The Elf tried pinching the Dwarf's arm and poking the soles of his feet with the point of his blade, but the Dwarf gave no sign that he either felt or heard anything. The only proof that he lived was his labored breathing. 'He is going to die', the Elf thought frantically. He ran to the door. Outside, by Éomer's orders, stood a servant waiting to fetch anything that Legolas might request. "Bring your master at once!" cried the Elf. Startled by the Elf's urgent command, the servant took off at a run.

When Éomer arrived, he found Legolas chafing Gimli's wrists. The Elf looked very pale, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. 'If he were not one of the Fair Folk', Éomer thought to himself, 'I should fear that he were falling ill himself'.

Éomer sent for the oldest and wisest of his healers. They propped Gimli up on pillows and draped towels over his head to create a sort of tent. Within the tent they thrust steaming kettles, but after an hour of inhaling the moist air, the Dwarf did not seem to be breathing any easier.

During this time, Legolas had been standing miserably at the foot of Gimli's bed. Éomer turned to speak to him and, shocked, saw the Elf slump to the ground.

For a moment, chaos reigned. Two of the healers fled from the room in terror, for they were certain that something very dreadful must have come amongst them. Even those who remained in the room recoiled a few steps. What disease, they asked themselves, could fell an Elf? Only Éomer went at once to Legolas's side. The King of Rohan feared no form of death, whether it came in the shape of sword or in the more mysterious guise of disease. He felt for the pulse of his elven friend. Like Gimli's, it was thready. Moreover, also like Gimli, Legolas both shivered and sweated, and his breath rattled in his chest. Éomer was amazed that Legolas seemed to have caught Gimli's illness, but he pushed this thought from his mind. It was necessary to attend to the Elf, and that was all he could allow himself to think of. First, he ordered his healers to strip the Elf of his garb and put him to bed beside Gimli. Next, he summoned three messengers. One Éomer dispatched to Minas Tirith. "If Gandalf be at Minas Tirith," he instructed the messenger, "beg him to come at once to Edoras. Tell him that not only the Dwarf but the Elf has fallen gravely ill." The second and third messengers Éomer sent to Lothlórien and Imladris with the same message.

It would, however, be several days before the wizard could arrive, so Éomer ordered his healers to continue their efforts. The two who had fled returned reluctantly. Again, towels were draped over the sufferers so that they might inhale a cloud of moist air. It was, however, a very long time before the patients began to respond—not until the following morning, in fact. As dawn broke, Gimli seemed to breathe a little easier. A few minutes later, Legolas's breathing, too, seemed easier. Gimli's eyelashes fluttered, as if he were near waking up. A few minutes later, Legolas's eyelashes fluttered. Gimli coughed and took a deep breath. Soon after, Legolas coughed and took a deep breath. Not long after that, Gimli muttered and stirred. Almost immediately, Legolas muttered and stirred. Looking on, Éomer almost laughed. He was put in mind of a puppet show, the movements of the puppeteer echoed by the movements of the marionette. 'I do not know how it is possible', he said to himself, 'but every move that Gimli makes is repeated shortly after by his eleven friend. It is as if their limbs were connected by invisible strings'.

At that very moment, Gimli yawned immensely and then opened his eyes and looked about blearily. Seconds later, Legolas yawned only a little less widely and opened his eyes as well. "I feel awful," the Elf moaned. "Is this what it means to be sick?"

"I am sure you will feel better soon," Éomer reassured him, "now Gimli is on the mend."

Legolas looked bewildered. "I will feel better now Gimli is on the mend," he repeated. "If I am sick, how will Gimli's being on the mend make _me_ feel better?"

Éomer held up his hands helplessly. "_I_ don't know, Legolas. Perhaps Gandalf can explain when he arrives. Meanwhile, drink some of this willow-bark tea."

The Elf took a sip from the proffered cup and grimaced. "Foul potion," he complained.

"Hah," crowed Gimli. The Dwarf was supporting himself on one elbow and staring at the strange sight of a sick Elf. "Now you have had a taste of your own medicine," continued the Dwarf, smirking.

Legolas glared at his friend. "I was sympathetic when _you_ were sick, Gimli. You might return the favor."

"But I am responsible for your recovery," Gimli replied loftily. "Éomer has said so."

"If you are responsible for my recovery, you are also responsible for my falling ill in the first place," Legolas argued.

"I don't see how," Gimli retorted. "You have told me repeatedly that Elves are not susceptible to mortal ailments."

"But how can you be responsible for my getting better but not responsible for the illness itself?"

Gimli shrugged. "I am also not responsible for explaining the mystery."

"Stiff-necked Dwarf!"

"Pointy-eared princeling!"

Éomer nodded to the healers that they might gather their bundles and depart. "I believe," the Man said dryly, "that you are both recovered enough so that you may be left to your own devices. Good-day!"

By now both of the erstwhile patients were sitting up in bed, arms folded across chests, brows furrowed. 'I hope they do not fly at each other', Éomer thought to himself as he closed the door behind himself. 'On the other hand, perhaps the exercise would be good for them'.

Two days later Gandalf rode into Edoras astride Shadowfax and was admitted at once into Meduseld. Éomer greeted him cheerfully.

"I am glad to see you, Gandalf, although it seems the crisis is past. Now you are here, however, you might look at Gimli's face."

"The sickness has settled in his visage?"

"No, but he has got a black eye."

Gandalf raised an eyebrow.

"You might also look at Legolas's nose. It appears to be a little crooked."

"It has been slightly crooked for centuries," Gandalf observed. "He broke it when he was a youth."

"Yes, but now it is crooked pointing the other way."

Gandalf raised the other eyebrow.

Later that day, Gandalf sat with Éomer in the King's private chamber. The Istar had examined the two patients and reset Legolas's nose. (The Elf had insisted that he did not want his nose straightened altogether but merely returned to its original state of crookedness.) Now, over a mug of ale, Éomer described to Gandalf how the course of Legolas's suffering and recovery had so closely tracked Gimli's. "I had always understood that Elves were immune to the diseases of mortals."

"And so they are," Gandalf agreed.

"How came Legolas to fall ill, then?"

"It was not a disease of the body but of the spirit," Gandalf explained. "Legolas fell ill out of empathy."

"Empathy?"

"Yes. The bond between those two is so strong that Legolas felt Gimli's distress within his own body."

"Would Legolas have died if Gimli had succumbed to his disease?"

"It is possible," Gandalf said. "It is generally believed that Arwen has forfeited her immortality through her marriage to Aragorn. However, it is conceivable that the Valar have not revoked their gift; it may instead be the case that the bond between the two is so strong that Arwen will choose to relinquish life rather than live on without her partner. Legolas's connection to Gimli may have become equally strong."

"You had better counsel Legolas on this matter, then, lest he die when Gimli dies, as the Dwarf inevitably will."

"I will not counsel him," Gandalf said firmly. "Love cannot be commanded. It can neither be ordered into being, nor halted by fiat once it has sprung into existence."

"I have always mocked the lovesick who proclaim that they cannot live without the objects of their affection," Éomer said thoughtfully, "but it seems there is some truth to the saying."

"Yes, and there is also some truth to the phrase 'immortal love'," Gandalf observed. "Love that will live on in the face of death."

"Odd, though," mused Éomer, "that the embracing of mortality should be the sign of such an immortal love."

"'Paradoxistical' our friend Gimli would say," smiled Gandalf. He raised his mug. "To love," he proclaimed, "the most powerful of bonds. Although a ring be its emblem, it is more powerful than any ring."

Éomer raised his own cup. "The bond between parent and child, husband and wife, friend and friend," he proclaimed.

As they spoke, in Minas Tirith Aragorn reverently caressed the slight swell of Arwen's belly. In Ithilien, Faramir clasped Éowyn's hand as the two wandered in the garden planted for them by Legolas. In the faraway Shire, Merry and Pippin threw their arms over each other's shoulders as they set out for the Green Dragon, and Sam made certain that Frodo polished off his dinner before hurrying into the garden to pick a bouquet for Rosie Cotton.

And in Edoras, Legolas dipped a cloth in a basin of water, wrung it out, and laid it upon Gimli's eye. The Dwarf opened his other eye a little. "Thankee, lad," he mumbled before drifting off again.

Legolas smiled gently at his friend and lay down beside him. As he settled himself, careful not to jostle his bandaged nose, he grimaced a little at the effort of breathing through his mouth. And if anyone had looked in on the friends later that night, they would have observed a most curious sight—two friends breathing in unison and, Dwarf and Elf, both snoring.


	5. Chapter 5: The Day of the Mother

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of Chapter 4: **_**leralonde, Lady Ambreanna, Joee1, Amiable Loner, Elfinabottle, and CAH.**_** I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you unless you have disabled the private messaging feature.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit **_**and**_** The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**. **

**The idea for this particular story came out of an email exchange between myself and **_**CAH**_**. Thank you, **_**CAH**_**.**

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for **_**Parallel Quest**_**, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Vocabulary**

**Æðelfrið****—****æðel**** 'noble' + ****frið**** 'peace' (Old English)**

**Dæg**** Ácennicgan—d****æ****g**** '****day' + acennicgan 'of mother' (Old English)**

**Chapter 5: The Day of the Mother**

Anomen and the twins watched as children danced into the meadow bearing bouquets of spring flowers. Laughing, the little humans poured the flowers into the laps of women enthroned upon artfully arranged grass turves that were covered with brightly colored blankets. The youngest of the humans, giggling, afterward crawled into the decorated laps, crushing the flowers but winning smiles rather than reproofs from the lips of the indulgent women.

"What festival is this?" Anomen asked. "Dæg Ácennicgan," Glorfindel answered reluctantly, glancing anxiously at the young Elf.

"Day of the Mother," Elladan translated softly. Neither of his brothers said anything. Instead they continued to watch silently as the mothers were serenaded by their lisping offspring. "Let us resume our journey," Glorfindel said at last.

"The headman of this village has offered us his hospitality," Elrohir said matter-of-factly. "As we have accepted, we cannot leave now without offering insult. Our father would not be pleased if we endangered the peace that has lately been established between our peoples."

Glorfindel looked fondly at the young elf. He knew it must be painful for Elrohir and his brothers to watch this celebration of mothers when they had lost their own. Yet they steeled themselves so that they might remain and not bring shame upon their nation. "Their mothers would be proud could they see the braveness and generosity of their sons," Glorfindel said to himself.

Suddenly Glorfindel noticed that one of the mothers had arisen from her throne and was looking about anxiously. She held one child by the hand, but the Elf remembered that a second child, a toddler, had been playing at her feet. Now there was no sign of the little boy.

"Æðelfrið," called the woman. "Æðelfrið!"

Several minutes passed as the mother continued to call for her child. One by one the other mothers left off playing with their own children, arose, and added their voices to hers. But Æðelfrið did not appear. "He has wandered into the forest," his mother began to weep.

"We will send for the Men," a woman consoled her. "They will pick up his track and recover him."

"But they are off hunting," the mother cried frantically, "and none of us can ride to recall them. By the time they return, my son may be devoured by wild animals."

The Elves had been silently watching. Now they quietly laid down their packs. Moving toward the forest fringe, they spread out and carefully searched the ground as the women consoled the grieving mother. "Here," Anomen called out at last. Glorfindel and the twins hurried to his side. There, in a patch of soft soil, was the imprint of a tiny foot. Glorfindel nodded approvingly. "I will summon the hunters, although I do not think they will be needed. You three follow the trail of the little one and restore him safe to his mother."

Glorfindel returned to their horses. Meanwhile, the three young Elves entered the forest. Anomen took the lead, for Elladan and Elrohir both knew that he was the best tracker of the three. Elrohir usually made it a point to dispute this fact, but in a case such as this he willingly set aside his rivalry with his foster brother.

The child left few traces, his weight too insubstantial to produce imprints save in the softest soil, but Anomen's elf eyes were practiced in hunting even more elusive prey. At least the little human was not trying to cover his tracks.

As the Elves pursued their infant quarry, they began to hear the murmur of flowing water. "A river," Anomen said quietly. The Elves exchanged worried glances. They knew that in broad daylight a toddler was more likely to perish in a river than in the maw of a wolf. Anomen stooped low over the trail, moving with a swiftness born of unease. The sound of the river increased to a roar. The Elves were running now. They broke from the forest and came in sight of a water course swollen with the spring rains. On its brink a toddler stood wobbling.

"Æðelfrið," called Anomen gently, "your Mama is looking for you."

At the sound of 'Mama', the child turned and took one step toward the Elves, who smiled at him encouragingly. Anomen held out his arms. The toddler lifted another foot—but before he could take a second step, the bank, undercut by the spring flood, collapsed beneath him.

Throwing his bow aside, Anomen sprinted toward the river and plunged in. Elrohir and Elladan raced after him, but before Elrohir could follow Anomen into the water, his twin prevented him. "We may be able to help him more from the bank," Elladan cried. "Let us look for long, stout branches."

Elrohir and Elladan raced downriver, as they did so seizing and discarding various branches until they had each found one that suited. Anomen, meanwhile, had reached the toddler. Holding the child above the water with one hand, he tried futilely to win his way to the shore with the other. But with only the use of one arm—and hampered by his quiver, which he had not had time to shed—he was making poor progress. Knowing that his brothers would make shift to follow him, he decided the best course of action was to grab hold of one of the rafts of driftwood that had become wedged between boulders and to hang on until Elladan and Elrohir could catch up with him. He hoped it would not be long before they found him, for the little human, his lips blue, was shivering violently.

He put this plan into effect and soon after was relieved to see his foster-brothers scrambling around a bend in the river, branches in hand. Elladan and Elrohir stopped a little upriver and surveyed the situation. "From that spit," Elladan pointed, "you could lower me to that rock if we lashed the two branches together. Then I could extend the lashed limbs to Anomen. He could tie the child to the branches, and I could draw him to the safety of the rock."

"Yes," said Elrohir, "but I don't think you will be able to push the child upriver to me."

"True," agreed Elladan. "We must look about for two more branches to lash together. Lower them to me, and I will fasten the child anew to them. Then you can draw him upriver. While you are doing that, I will again extend the first pair of branches to Anomen so that he too may be drawn to the rock and thence to shore."

This plan seemed good, and the two Elves hunted about both for grape vines and for two additional long, sturdy branches. In short order, Elrohir had lowered Elladan to the rock, and Elladan had extended the lashed limbs to Anomen whilst keeping a good grip on his end. Taking the extra grape vines that the twins had wrapped around the improvised pole, Anomen made sure that the toddler was secured to the device. Then Elladan drew the child to the rock. Next, he fastened the child anew to the other pair of lashed limbs whose end Elrohir still clutched as he lay flat on the spit. Elrohir drew the toddler to the spit, and Elladan then drew Anomen to the rock, from which the two were one by one pulled to safety by Elrohir.

Once Æðelfrið and the Elves were safe ashore, Elrohir wrapped the toddler in his tunic, which was the only dry garment amongst them (save for his leggings). Then they began to carry the child back toward the human settlement. When they neared the village, they heard hoof beats. Led by Glorfindel, the hunters had come in search of them. Even though they were only yards from the settlement, gladly the Elves mounted their horses, which had trotted in Glorfindel's wake. Although they were now adults in the reckoning of Elves and therefore little affected by their immersion in icy water, the young Elves were still weary from both exertion and excitement.

As the Elves and humans cantered into the village, Æðelfrið's mother rushed forward, arms uplifted, and the hunter who cradled the child gently lowered him into her arms. At that moment she had eyes only for her son and could not spare a thought for the Elves who had rescued him. Later, however, after Æðelfrið, warmed and fed, had been put to bed under the watchful eyes of a sister, the mother sought them out. The Elves had retired to a hut that had been set aside for their use, but Æðelfrið's mother insisted that they come forth and join the feast that was the culmination of Dæg Ácennicgan. She importuned them so urgently that they yielded to her entreaties and followed her to the green, where to their embarrassment they found that they were the center of attention. Their embarrassment soon turned to gratitude, however, when the most ancient woman present, a great-great grandmother, arose and announced that the village wished to honor the elven mothers who were not present but whose great worth was evinced by the sons whom they had born. "For truly," this venerable woman proclaimed, "only great mothers could have given birth to such bold and kind sons who willingly risk their lives to rescue another mother's son."

Since the elven mothers were absent, the women who honored them tried to outdo one another in 'mothering' their offspring. Women hovered ready to attend to their every need. As soon as an Elf's cup or plate was empty, a solicitous mother would hasten to refill it. More wine? More bread? More soup? More cheese? Under the careful ministrations of the mothers, the young Elves were so sated that Elrohir was actually heard to burp, a noise generally associated with Dwarves rather than with the Fair Folk.

Later, the Elves, whom even a Hobbit would have deemed overfed, staggered into their lodging, where they discovered that their bedrolls had been replaced by quilts and furs. Gratefully, they rested their heads upon plump pillows and bolsters embroidered by loving hands. And as they dozed off, before each one a figure seemed to stoop. No doubt it was only their imagination, kindled by the excitement of the day, but each felt a gentle pressure upon his forehead, a sensation very like a kiss. "Nana," each murmured. And then one and all they nestled into blankets that had been smoothed by a mother's hand.


	6. Chapter 6: Disguises

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. I am way behind in replying to reviews, but if you do happen to be logged in, I will try as best I can to use the reply feature to get back to you unless you have disabled the private messaging feature.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit **_**and**_** The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**. **

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for **_**Parallel Quest**_**, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Vocabulary**

**faeg—bad; by extension the oath 'wicked!' (Sindarin)****  
****Eru—****Eru Ilúvatar, the supreme being, creator of Ëa (existence)****  
Samhain—Summer's End, the name of a harvest festival now associated with Halloween (Irish)****  
****tithen laes—little baby (Sindarin)**

**Chapter 6: Disguises  
**

Arwen stood on tiptoe as she tried to peer into the mirror that stood on a table in the room that had once been her mother's. Humans think Elves lovely, but the Fair Folk themselves do not dwell on their own beauty. Hence there were few mirrors in Rivendell (notwithstanding gibes to the contrary that years hence would be uttered by a certain Dwarf traveling in company with a certain Elf).

"Faeg!" exclaimed Arwen, for once imitating her brothers, who thought themselves daring when they uttered this mild oath. She fingered the yarn dreadlocks that framed her face and traced the jagged scar that Anomen had painted on her cheek. She opened her mouth and examined her teeth, stained black with licorice (all save the one that had fallen out that morning when she bit into a crisp fall apple). 'Ada won't recognize me', she giggled-then briefly grew frightened at the thought. 'Tithen laes', she scolded herself after a few nervous minutes. 'Ada knows today is Samhain, and he will know to look for me. But perhaps', she added hopefully, her thoughts turning whimsical as quickly as they had waxed fearful, 'perhaps _some_ people will be fooled'. She shivered in fearful delight at the thought of the shrieks with which she and her brothers would be greeted as they pelted from cottage to cottage demanding 'treats' on peril of 'tricks'.

At that moment, said brothers were putting the finishing touches on their own disguises. Not deigning to rely upon anything as domestic as a looking glass, they were clustered around a pool in the garden, peering gleefully as their reflections were distorted by a few laggard water skaters that oared themselves across the rippled surface.

"You look so much like a Troll," Anomen grinned, tossing a pebble at Elladan's reflection, "that you had better be certain that you are inside by dawn-you don't want to be turned into a block by the rays of the morning sun!"

"A blockhead, you mean," added Elrohir, also grinning. Then he frowned as he tugged at the swathe of fur glued to his chin.

"You are going to ruin that beard," Elladan warned.

"And that would be a shame," laughed Anomen, "for you do look a proper Dwarf!"

"I know," grumbled Elrohir, dropping his hand, "but my face itches something fearful. It is the glue, I think."

"Men do say," intoned Elladan, trying to look wise, "that one must suffer to be beautiful. Perhaps one must also suffer to be dwarfish."

"It is a small matter to suffer for such a small matter," giggled Anomen. Elladan groaned and attempted to quirk his eyebrows after the fashion of their father Elrond. As for Elrohir, he dipped his hand into the pond and splashed a little water upon Anomen's painted face. A few drops of green rolled down the chin of the younger Elf. Anomen flicked the drops away. "Do I still look like a leprechaun?" he asked anxiously. Like all Elves, he knew that leprechauns were imaginary creatures; nonetheless, he took great delight in garbing himself as one of the green-skinned little people who humans swore were to be found dwelling in tumuli that could only be entered once in a hundred years and whose treasure (pots filled with gold!) could be discovered if only one might succeed in following a rainbow to its end.

"You look a perfect leprechaun," Elladan reassured him. "Come. It is nearly dusk! Let us find Arwen."

The elflings ran back toward the Hall, only slowing to a walk as they approached the Door Warden. Walking sedately past the older Elf, in a manner befitting the sons of Elrond, they were no sooner in the Hall than they began to run down the corridor. With Anomen in the lead and Elrohir trodding on his heels, the elflings rounded a corner—and found themselves pelting toward Glorfindel, the redoubtable balrog slayer. Anomen, ever nimble, stopped abruptly. Elrohir, however, plowed into Anomen's back and knocked the younger and lighter elfling to the floor at the very feet of the stern-faced warrior. Losing his own balance, Elrohir ended up sprawled on top of Anomen. Bringing up the rear, Elladan flung out his arms to arrest his forward momentum but stumbled over Elrohir's legs and fell atop him. Elrohir let out a very unelvenly 'oomph'. As for Anomen, he had already had the air squashed out of him, and now he was feebly trying to wriggle out from under the combined weight of his foster brothers.  
Disguising his smile beneath a grimace, Glorfindel reached down and seized Elrohir and Elladan by the scruffs of their necks and lifted them bodily. Anomen, liberated but breathless, took a few minutes to recover himself before cautiously sitting up. He glanced timidly at Glorfindel but hastily looked away before he had the opportunity to spy the grin that momentarily passed across the warrior's face. As for Elladan and Elrohir, Glorfindel had set them upon their feet, which they were presently studying as assiduously as if they had newly discovered themselves to be bipedal. "Are you being chased by Orcs?" demanded the balrog slayer. "For I know no other reason why you should be racing so precipitously within the bounds of the Hall."

"We are not fleeing from an Orc," Anomen said carefully. "We pursue one instead."

"There is an Orc within the Hall?"

Anomen considered. "An orcling," he said at last.

"A small Orc?" said Glorfindel.

"Yes," Anomen replied.

"Small enough so that you can manage this Orc on your own, without the assistance of my sword?"

"Yes," the elflings chorused.

"Very well. Go and find your Orc. But in your quest for this Orc, do not bowl over any Elves!"

The three elflings bowed to the balrog slayer and carefully edged around him. With careful steps, they marched to the end of the corridor. Turning it, they immediately began to run once more.

Behind them, hearing their quickened footfalls, Glorfindel grinned anew. 'Erestor should be leaving his study about now', he said to himself. 'Perhaps', he thought hopefully, 'those scamps will collide with him'.

Fortunately for Erestor, he was still in his study poring over a manuscript. He raised his head and frowned at the door when he heard the elflings scurry by. 'I do not understand why Elrond indulges those rascals on this day', he grumbled to himself. 'They need no encouragement to engage in mischief. Yes, that is what this day is—a celebration of mischief. Even worse, the festival is based on mannish superstitions. Elrond should ask himself this question: What has Eru to do with Samhain?'

At that moment, unaware of Erestor's indignation, Elrond was gazing fondly at his daughter as she prattled excitedly. At first, he had been a little taken aback when she had scampered into his chamber costumed as an Orc. 'Of course', he thought to himself, 'she is too young to dwell on the fact that her mother was captured and tormented by Orcs. To her, goblins are nothing but creatures out of tales told to amuse and frighten children'. Mindful of this fact, Elrond listened patiently as Arwen chattered about the elflings' plans for the evening. She catalogued the cottages that they would visit and began to enumerate the expected treats.

"Do you not know," Elrond laughed, "that you must not count your eggs before they're in the pudding?"

"I haven't got any eggs, Ada," Arwen replied, puzzled.

Elrond laughed again and bent to kiss the tip of Arwen's nose, which was currently the only undecorated portion of her face. It had been painted, but Arwen had afterward scratched her nose, for like Elrohir's chin, it itched.

After bestowing a kiss upon a bemused Arwen, Elrond straightened up and looked toward the door. "Enter," he called. No one had knocked, but he had heard the pell-mell approach of Arwen's brothers. Now they swarmed into the room and stood wriggling before their father, shifting from leg to leg in their excitement. Elrond frowned. This was only the second time Samhain had been celebrated in Rivendell, and he had not forgotten that the first year an actual goblin had somehow managed to creep into the valley. The elf-lord did not want the elflings to be so excited as to be heedless of danger.

At their father's frown, the elflings immediately grew still. Some Elves were stern; some merry. Elrond could be both. So now Arwen and her brothers stood quiet and attentive as Elrond instructed them as to how far they might go and how long they might remain out after dark.

"You may not cross the bridge to visit the outlying cottages. Go only to the near ones," he adjured them. They nodded solemnly.

"You must return one hour after full sunset. Listen for the bell and heed it," he commanded. More solemn nods.

"Figwit will escort you. You must remain within his sight."

The elflings exchanged disappointed glances, but at their father's renewed frown, they nodded vigorously. Satisfied, he gestured that they might depart the chamber.

"Figwit!" exclaimed Elrohir when he thought that they were beyond their father's hearing. "Why does it have to be Figwit?"

"Likely," Elladan said gloomily, "our father is trying to get him outside the Hall where he won't break anything."

Figwit had an elegant appearance even for an Elf, but he lacked the gracefulness that usually accompanied such elegance. The Carpenter was kept busy repairing furniture that had been knocked over by Figwit; the Draper was forever restitching tapestries that had been caught on Figwit's person as he ambled by; the Silversmith had his hands full smoothing dents out of goblets dropped at table by the maladroit Elf. The elflings stared mournfully one at the other, with visions of costumes crushed and treats lost from rent satchels. Suddenly, however, they all brightened at the sound of youthful voices. The Lórien brothers, who had arrived on a visit a fortnight ago, had finished their own preparations and were issuing forth from their chamber. The Imladris elflings ran toward the laughter and the giggling, As usual, Arwen, with her shorter legs, lagged behind Elrohir and Elladan, and Anomen held back to clasp her hand and shepherd her after her brothers. Elrohir and Elladan loved their sister, but sometimes they took her for granted in a way that Anomen never did.

When Anomen and Arwen caught up with the twins, they were comparing costumes with the Lórien brothers. Haldir was masked as an Ent, one of the legendary tree herders. His leggings were brown and his tunic green, and leaves were fastened to his arms and to his hood, which was drawn down so that the eyes in his green-painted face could scarcely be seen through the foliage. Orophin was dressed as a Beorning. He was sweating in his costume pieced together out of the fur of a bear, for even though it was late October, the day was warm. As for Rúmil, he was a dragon. Proudly he held out his arms so that his friends could see the red cloth that stretched from wrist to waist like the membranous wings of a bat.  
Now not even the arrival of Figwit could put a damper on the spirits of the elflings. Elrond had given them permission to go from chamber to chamber in the Hall itself, but they decided to leave that until after they had visited the cottages. "We should make the best of the remaining light," Elrohir declared, "for we can always beg treats within doors after we return."

With Figwit trailing after, and holding carved turnips in one hand and empty sacks in the other, the elflings ran giggling from the Hall. They descended upon cottage after cottage, demanding treats and playfully threatening tricks if the sweets were not forthcoming. At every cottage they visited, the inhabitants pretended terror and then proffered trays of sweetmeats. At some cottages the elflings were offered sugarplums made from dates and almonds flavored with spices and honey or sugar. At other cottages they were offered toffees made of butter and sugar into which nuts or bits of dried fruit had been folded. At some places they were given marzipan sweets, the sugar and almond meal confection having been cunningly shaped into various animals; or they were given licorice candies made from flour, sugar, and extracts from the root that gave the candy its name. Elsewhere the elflings were offered nougat candies concocted of beaten eggs whites and honey with a generous sprinkling of nuts, or they were gifted with chewy caramels made by boiling together milk, sugar, and butter.

After a while, their bags heavy, the elflings heard the bell that signaled the return to the Hall, and obediently, without any prompting from Figwit, they turned toward home. They had taken only a few steps, however, when Elrohir, who was in the lead, stopped abruptly. "Do you see that dark shadow," he said to Orophin, who was just behind him. "Where?" asked the young Lórien Elf. "Under that tree," said Elrohir, pointing.  
By now all the elflings, and Figwit, too, had come up. Everyone stared hard at the spot where Elrohir was pointing.

"There _is _a shadow beneath that tree," agreed Haldir, "but one would _expect _a shadow beneath a tree. The moonlight is blocked by the branches, just as the sunlight would be blocked were it daylight."

"It is darker than it should be," argued Elrohir. "There is something beneath that tree that shouldn't be."

Anomen, keen-eyed even for an Elf, was about to agree with Elrohir when he was relieved of the necessity of doing so. The shadow moved.  
The elfings dropped their turnips (but not, it must be noted, their bags of treats) in order to clutch each other. Even Haldir the skeptical seized hold of the nearest elfling. This was Elrohir, who would remind Haldir of that fact for many years to come.

Of the party, only Figwit remained calm. Graceless he may have been, but he had ever proved himself courageous, and tonight would be no different from any of the other times when peril had threatened. Drawing his sword, he leaped in front of the elflings, standing between them and the shadow, which had taken on the form of a wraith—if 'form' be the proper word to subscribe so insubstantial a being.

"Run," he ordered the elflings. "Run for the Hall!"

This was agreeable advice to the elflings, and they followed it at once, their shrieks marking their progress toward the Hall and safety. Behind them, Figwit advanced on the translucent wraith, whose outline kept shifting as in fluttered in the moonlight. Figwit's sword met no resistance as the Elf thrust it again and again into the specter. Nor did the wraith offer to hurt the Elf. At last, shrugging, Figwit sheathed his sword. "I don't know what you are about," he said, addressing the wraith, "but as I can't hurt you, and you don't seem interested in hurting me, I'll be on my way. A pleasant Samhain to you."

With that calm pronouncement, Figwit followed after the elflings. He tripped over a root before he had gone too far, and his cloak caught on a bush and tore, but Glorfindel found him otherwise unharmed when, alerted by the excited elflings, he sallied forth to effect an unnecessary rescue.  
After Figwit had turned toward the Hall, the wraith dissolved into a mist that was blown away on the breeze. It was replaced by a solid figure that stepped out from behind the tree. Laughing, Mithrandir settled a tall pointed hat on his head and adjusted his silver scarf. Taking a firm grip on his staff, he set out for the Hall, where he planned to regale Elrond and Glorfindel with an account of his latest exploit. "Really, Elrond," he would say at the elf-lord's mild reproof. "Really, Elrond, I cannot be expected to spend all my time on great Quests. I must be allowed _some _amusement. Besides, what is Samhain if a little terror is not mixed in to balance the sweetness of marzipan and sugar plums? Moreover, you know that by morning delight at having had an adventure will have driven away the memory of any fear that the elflings may have suffered."

Elrond sighed a little. Mithrandir spoke the truth. Elflings, like the young of all races, had in some respects very short memories. They were likely to remember the excitement of that night far longer than they would remember its terror.

"Be glad for that, Elrond," Mithrandir advised. "All too soon you will wish that they could recover these days when the only goblins in their lives are pretend ones of their own making."

"_So it __**was**__ you," Legolas said decades later. "I suspected that was the case almost immediately, for it seemed an odd coincidence that we should encounter such a vaporous creature just as you returned from your latest journey. However, I did not mention my suspicions because my playmates were so elated at having encountered such a delightfully frightening creature. Retelling the tale lifted our spirits on many a dreary evening—just as you have lately lifted the spirits of the Hobbits by telling your version of the story."_

_Elf and wizard looked over at the knot of entangled Hobbits that lay sleeping during a break from their march through Moria. "Samhain has for some time been celebrated throughout elvendom," Legolas observed, "but this year, after the Council of Elrond, no one in Rivendell had time to give it any thought. If we should succeed in this quest, though, I am resolved to never let another year pass without honoring it."_

_Gandalf chuckled. "So, Master Elf, if we succeed in destroying the goblins, you will make shift to bring them back once a year. Well, well, I suppose life would be too dull without our bogeymen. If none existed, we would have to invent them. Humans are particularly good at creating various sorts of monsters. When I have time, I shall have to tell you about the vampire and the werewolf and the nzúmbe that troubles the dreams of Men of the south."_

"_I have heard tales about vampires and werewolves, but I have never heard tell of the nzúmbe."_

"_Next Samhain," Gandalf promised, "I shall tell you such tales of the nzúmbe as shall make Orcs seem positively benign in comparison. A nzúmbe is an undead Man that shambles about feasting upon the living. If you survive the bite of such a creature, you will become one yourself."_

_Legolas shuddered. "Then I am glad that they exist only in tales!"_

"_We can control such creatures in our tales," agreed Gandalf. "That fact, I believe, is what accounts for the popularity of Samhain, which is naught else but a tale come to life in which the monstrous characters are played by children. In this tale, we placate the creatures that clamor at our doorsteps, and their hunger satisfied, they depart leaving us unharmed—until the next Samhain."_

'_Until the next Samhain', Legolas repeated as, his watch concluded, he allowed himself to sleep. And as he slept, he dreamed of Hobbits disguising themselves as ghouls—Sam donning Troll garb, Merry dressing himself as an Orc, Pippin taking on the appearance of a Wraith. And Frodo—as Legolas watched, Frodo slowly dwindled into a creeping creature with staring eyes too large for his shrunken face. His legs and arms withered, his hair dropped out until all that remained were a few lank strands, his teeth decayed, and those that did not fall from his stinking gums were snaggled. This apparition turned its eyes upon Legolas. "It is my present guise that is the mask, Legolas," it hissed._

_Legolas awoke in an unaccustomed panic and looked over to where Frodo slept curled amongst his companions. 'What do those words mean?' the Elf wondered as he lay back uneasily. 'Was the nightmare Frodo a disguise for the real Frodo, or am I to understand that a monstrous creature is hidden beneath Frodo's brown curls and behind his bright weskit?'_

_Gradually Legolas fell asleep once more, and the evil dream did not return; but the Elf would have been troubled anew had he been awake when Frodo briefly roused himself and clutched at the Ring. 'My Precious', muttered the Hobbit before falling back into an evil dream of his own._

_The only witness to the Hobbit's stirring was Boromir, whose watch it was. "My Precious," repeated the Man of Gondor as, his own eyes large and staring, he gazed fixedly at the sleeping Hobbit. As Legolas had briefly glimpsed, it is not only on Samhain that folk don masks—and Boromir's was beginning to slip._


	7. Chapter 7: Unchanging Change

**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**Thanks to the following reviewers of Episode 6 of **_**The Holiday Cabinet**_**: **_**Lasette-1982, ziggy3, Ne'ith5, Sadie Sil – English stories, Joee1, Lady Ambreanna, leralonde, **_**and **_**CAH**_**.**

**I would also like to thank **_**Rosie**_**, who weighed in with a review of Episode 2.**

**This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit**_** and **_**The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**.**

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for Parallel Quest, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

**Vocabulary**

**Beiwe—name of sun-goddess (Sami ['Finnish'])**

**Brumalia—name of solstice festival in honor of Bacchus (bruma 'shortest day'; Latin)**

**mellon-nín—my friend ('friend' mellon + 'nín 'my'; Sindarin)**

**êlhîr—astronomers ('êl 'star' + 'masters' [pl. of hîr = same as sg.; Sindarin)**

**Girithron—December (Sindarin)**

**Hertha (Bertha)****—goddess of light (****'the bright one'; Germanic)**

**hors—horse (Old English)**

**Jól (Jul, Joulu, and ****Jõulud)—'Yule' (also ****Géol, Geul; various Germanic languages and dialects)**

**Lussinatta—Lussi Night (adapted by Christians into Feast of St. Lucia; Swedish)**

**Midvinterblót—Midwinter Sacrifice (****blót is a distant cognate of 'blood'; ****Swedish)**

**Modranicht—Night of the Mothers**** (Old English)**

**Narwain****—January (Sindarin)**

**roch—'horse' (sindarin)**

**Episode 7: Unchanging Change**

"It is arbitrary."

"No, it is not."

"It is."

"It is not."

Anomen looked up from the bird he was whittling to the corner of the room where Elladan and Elrohir stood arguing with each other. "I know we are all elflings," he teased, "but you two sound as if you were—elflets!"

"There is no such word," objected Elladan indignantly.

"There is now because I have uttered it," Anomen replied loftily.

"There is not!" repeated Elladan stubbornly.

"How could I have said 'elflets' if the word did not exist?" Anomen demanded.

"You made it up. It is nothing but a sound," Elrohir joined the dispute, easily moving from arguing with his twin to debating with Anomen.

"Erestor says," retorted Anomen, "that a word is a sound that has meaning. Since you understood what I meant by 'elflets', it is a sound that has meaning. Therefore," he concluded triumphantly, "it is a word."

Elrohir and Elladan looked at each other. If there was a flaw in Anomen's logic, they could not put their finger on it.

"What were you arguing about?" asked Anomen, seeing that the debate over 'elflets' was at an end.

"Elladan said there was no reason that the New Year ought to be celebrated on the first of Narwain. He said it was arbitrary and that any day might do to commence counting the circuit of the sun."

"That is true," Elladan argued. "Start on any day of the year. Count three-hundred and sixty-five days past that day, and you will be back where you started. It doesn't matter where you begin. You will have always counted one circuit of the sun."

"I think Elladan may have a point," Anomen said thoughtfully. "A circle has no beginning. If you were to trace a circle you might begin anywhere you like. A year is nothing but a circle in time. So why may one not mark the beginning of the year at any point one chooses?"

"But a year is not only a circle," Elrohir protested. "It is also a straight line. We go forward in time. It is true that if you count three-hundred and sixty-five days past the first of Narwain, you will arrive at the first of Narwain again. But it won't be the _**same**_ first of Narwain."

"But we are not trying to return to an earlier day," Elladan argued. "We are merely trying to decide when to start counting—and any day will do for that."

"If you started counting today," Elrohir shot back, "the current year would be several days short."

"True," conceded Elladan, "but that would be a problem for this year only. All future years would have the proper number of days."

Anomen suddenly rejoined the argument. "You are both leaving out one element," he proclaimed.

Both Elladan and Elrohir paused in their dispute and looked at him. Would this omitted element favor the one or the other's argument?

"What element have we overlooked?" Elladan asked cautiously.

"The seasons," Anomen said. "One day is not exactly like the next. Some days fall in spring, some in summer, others in autumn, and yet others in winter."

"It would make sense," Elrohir pondered, "if the first day of the New Year were to fall upon a day marking one of these divisions. But New Year's Day does not coincide with any of those days," he added. "It is closest to the start of winter, which this year fell on the twenty-first of Girithron, but that is still ten days shy of the New Year. Anyway, if you were to pick a day to commence a year, why not begin with the first day of spring, the season of renewal?"

"You could argue that renewal begins when the days start to lengthen," Elladan pointed out, "and the first day of winter marks that point, for after it the days do get longer."

"But I have said that the beginning of winter is ten days shy of the first of Narwain," Elrohir reminded him. "Why wait so long if the first day of the New Year is meant to signify renewal? Why not celebrate straightaway the lengthening of the days?"

"I can think of two reasons why we might delay," Anomen mused. "The first day of winter is so short, its light so fleeting, that no one is in the mood for a celebration. The second day of winter is longer than the first, but the difference is so negligible as to be hardly noticeable. Our êlhîr may measure the change, but most of us do not mark it. And the difference between the second and the third day of winter is likewise negligible. But the difference between the twenty-first of Girithron and the first of Narwain is plain to all. A person waking up to an earlier sunrise on the latter day would say, 'Truly, the days are growing longer. Now I will allow myself to hope that spring will return to this land'."

"Erestor says that some tribes of men celebrate the first day of winter," Elladan observed.

"I remember when he said that," Anomen replied. "Those tribes pretend to battle forces that would steal away the sun entirely. They tell their children that after that battle the days will cease their waning and begin to lengthen instead. Then, on the first of Narwain, like us they celebrate the New Year, saying that the lengthening days prove that they succeeded in defeating the sun-thieves."

"Men never overlook an opportunity to feast," Elrohir said virtuously, "so of course they would celebrate both days. But, Anomen, you said there were _**two**_ reasons why we might delay celebrating a New Year. What is the second?"

Anomen adopted a professorial tone in imitation of Erestor. "The second reason," he intoned, "is rather tech-ni-cal." He had just learned this word, and he drew out the syllables proudly. Elrohir snorted, and Anomen quickly abandoned the attempt to sound like his tutor.

"It is a well-known fact," he said, "that the year is not truly three-hundred and sixty-five days long."

"Of course," agreed Elladan. "Our êlhîr know that the full cycle of the sun lasts three-hundred sixty-five and one-quarter days."

"But that is of no importance," Elrohir chimed in. "Every four years the êlhîr add a day to the calendar and all is well. And," he added with a grin, "folks born on that ephemeral day are leaplings who will not see another birthday for four years!"

"Figwit is a leapling," Elladan observed.

"Yes, he is," Elrohir agreed, "but it doesn't bother him. He celebrates his birthday either before or after the missing date, whichever he pleases." The elfling giggled. "Actually, do you remember the year that he celebrated his birthday on _**both**_ the day before and the day after?"

Elladan grinned. "I do. The first celebration ended in disaster when Figwit knocked over a candle stand and set an arras on fire."

Anomen was growing impatient. "You haven't let me finish my explanation," he complained.

"But we already knew that the year is longer than three-hundred and sixty-five days," said Elrohir.

"And we already knew that sometimes the êlhîr add a day to the year," Elladan chimed in. "These are some of the first facts that we learned when we began to study the calendar."

Anomen looked pityingly at his foster-brothers. "Adding a day from time to time will _**not**_ make right the calendar," he informed them, "for a year is not _**pre-cisely**_ three-hundred and sixty-five and one-quarter days in length."

"If it is not _**pre-cisely**_ three-hundred and sixty-five and one-quarter days in length, then what _**pre-cisely **_is it?" demanded Elrohir, imitating Anomen's exaggerated pronunciation.

"The problem," said Anomen, once again immediately assuming a natural tone of voice, "is that it is impossible to measure the length of the year with absolute accuracy. Mithrandir says that someday far in the future the êlhîr will have the tools to do so, but for now they can only estimate its length."

"I wish you would state your point, Anomen," complained Elladan. "You sound more and more like Erestor!"

"You really are an elflet!" retorted Anomen. "The point ought to be obvious. Over a year's time or even a decade's, any imprecision wouldn't signify, but over millennia small differences would cause the months to shift in relation to the seasons. So if Mithrandir is correct, then upon a time the first of Narwain may have actually coincided with the point at which the days begin to grow longer. It _**really**_ would have been the beginning of a New Year!"

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged bewildered glances. It was all very well to argue that, in theory, the year could begin on any day one chose. But it was troubling to think that something as important as a year could not be measured and that months could actually shift.

Looking at their anxious faces, Anomen began to feel uneasy himself. Was there anything else that could not to be relied upon? For a moment Anomen considered the idea that even the earth beneath his feet might shift about. Was it possible that the spot whereon he stood had once been located elsewhere in Arda? Anomen had experienced an earthquake, and Mithrandir had told him that hundreds of tiny earthquakes took place every day on Arda.

The bell rang for the noon meal just then, and three subdued elflings walked slowly toward the dining hall. "It really _**is**_ noon, isn't it?" Elladan asked hesitantly.

"I think it must be," Elrohir said reassuringly. "Look at the sundial!"

The three elflings stopped and regarded that timepiece. The shadow of the style did indeed fall upon the notch for noon in the month of Girithron.

"Remember that we would have to live a very long time before we noticed any difference in the seasons," Anomen offered.

"We _**will**_ live a very long time," Elladan retorted. "We're elves!"

"Those elflings are up to no good," Glorfindel observed to Elrond as the young elves took their seats. "They are altogether too quiet."

"I believe you are mistaken, mellon-nín," Elrond replied. "Those are the faces of melancholy elflings rather than mischievous ones. Something troubles them."

After the meal, the elflings had been expected on the training field, for although the day was cold, it was also clear and windless—perfect for archery practice. Elrond, however, asked Glorfindel if he might first speak with them in his study. "You do not want distracted archers on the field," he observed when Glorfindel began to protest. "I see your point," conceded the balrog slayer. "Which is the only point I wish to contemplate!" he added, no doubt thinking of the time when a distracted novice had shot him in the seat.

After lunch, then, the elflings solemnly presented themselves at Elrond's study. "I am surprised to see you so somber when we are on the verge of celebrating the New Year," Elrond observed.

The elflings exchanged glances.

"Ada," Elrohir ventured, "will it _**really**_ be the New Year?"

"According to our calendar, yes—although perhaps not in the calendars of other peoples, who may celebrate on a day other than the one on which our folk customarily mark the beginning of the year."

Elladan's spirits improved a little as he realized that he may have been right when he said that the choice of day was arbitrary.

"But once a day has been chosen," Anomen persisted, "is that day fixed? May not the celebration wander because the year is not an exact number of days? Is the New Year that we celebrate the same as the New Year our ancestors celebrated?"

"It is always roughly the same day," Elrond answered.

"Roughly!" exclaimed Elrohir. "Only roughly?"

"For our purposes, that will suffice."

"So we are not actually certain when the year begins?" said Anomen.

"We are certain that it begins upon the day that our folk have agreed upon. It is true that over the centuries the days slowly diverge from their places with respect to the seasons. No doubt Erestor has taught you that every four years a day is added to the calendar."

The elflings nodded. "But we know that the addition of that day cannot be enough," Anomen observed.

"That is correct, Anomen. Erestor may not yet have had an opportunity to explain that on occasion the êlhîr add additional days to the calendar. These corrections are rare, and many folk do not realize that they take place."

"So when the calendar has diverged sufficiently from the seasons, the êlhîr set matters aright," Elladan said, relieved to know that someone was trying to keep order in an unexpectedly chaotic world.

"I still have a question, Ada," said Anomen, who was not as easily satisfied as Elladan. "You said that other folk may celebrate the New Year on a day different from ours. Why did we settle upon the first of Narwain? Why didn't we settle upon a different day, such as the twenty-first of Girithron?"

"It is possible," Elrond said, "that upon a time the New Year coincided with the winter solstice." Anomen glanced smugly at Elladan and Elrohir, who pretended not to notice. "It is also possible," continued the elf-lord, ignoring Anomen's efforts to get a rise out of the twins, "that the divergence between the two dates resulted because upon a time our folk used a solar calendar for some purposes and a lunar calendar for others. Or there may be some other reason altogether—or no reason at all. In the end, we must simply accept that the day is customary, and customs please us by their familiarity rather than their logic."

Anomen frowned. "Then our celebration is not superior to those of other folk? If the dwarves celebrate the New Year on a day different from ours, is not ours the better of the two?"

Elrond shook his head, smiling a little. Why was it always dwarves with Anomen? "Tell me, my son: when I bid you goodnight, do I kiss you on the cheek or the forehead?"

"On the forehead."

"Would I love you any less if I kissed you on the cheek—or on the nose?"

Anomen giggled at the thought of being kissed on the nose, but he answered that Elrond would love his sons the same no matter where he bestowed his kisses.

"Indeed, you are correct. It is my custom to kiss you on the forehead, but I could have just as easily gotten into the habit of kissing you on the cheek. It is done so in other families. So it is with winter festivals and celebrations of the renewal of the year. Every tribe has one or more such festival. The dates may differ, as well as the nature of the observances. The games that are played and pageants enacted vary, as do the songs that are sung and the stories told, the foods eaten and the beverages quaffed. In my journeys I have learned that people far to the southeast celebrate Brumalia in honor of a god of wine and merriment, both sorely needed when the days are short and dark. Far to the northeast, however, some folk celebrate the feast of Beiwe, goddess of the sun whose return presages the renewal of the earth's fertility. Other tribes to the northeast keep watch on Lussinatta, lest the witch Lussi come down the chimney. Then woe to naughty children who have neglected their chores! Then there is the feast of Hertha, a goddess whom the people welcome by decorating their houses with evergreen boughs. They exchange gifts at this time, but in the most curious manner. They bake cakes into the shape of shoes, which they fill with presents."

The elflings laughed delightedly. What a curious notion, to fill cake-shoes with gifts!

"Other folks keep the Midvinterblót, which, as you might guess from the name, requires the sacrifice of animals—indeed, it may have upon a time required human sacrifice."

The elflings shuddered. How could the same race that filled pastry shoes with gifts engage in human sacrifice?

"The human sacrifices ceased a very long time ago," Elrond said gently. "No doubt, however, you would find the Modranicht less fearful. It takes place on the twenty-fifth of Girithron. It celebrates the Mothers, and it entails sacrifice, yes, but mainly of incense and fruit, although pigs, too, are sometimes offered."

The elflings wrinkled their faces. Pigs! Elves were not fond of pork.

Elrond laughed. "Then there is Jól," he continued, "which the men hereabouts celebrate. That festival is widespread throughout what was once Eriador. The pronunciation of its name has diverged over the years as men settled into tribes and people spent more time talking to those within the tribe than those without. One tribe may call it Jul, but another may say Joulu, and yet another Jõulud. Yet it is recognizably the same festival."

This talk of words put Anomen in mind of his invented word. "Languages changes like the shifting of days over the millennia," he exclaimed, "and in the end what we call a word is a matter of custom."

Elrond looked fondly at his foster-son. "Indeed you are correct. That is why we elves say "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet"—or as men proclaim, "A sword by any other name would be as deadly."

"That puts me in mind of the proverb 'Same story, different versions, and all are true'," mused Elladan.

"Yes," said Elrond. "All calendars capture the passage of time in a fashion that allows people to keep records and make plans. All languages denominate things and actions so that folk can recite past events and speculate about future ones. It does not matter if folk in one tribe call a four-legged animal with a long tail and mane a 'roch' or a 'hors' as long as the people in that tribe have agreed upon one name or the other."

The world once again understandable, the elflings became at once cheerful and ready to wreak smiling havoc. Elrond made to dismiss them from his study, but Anomen suddenly thought of another question.

"Ada, calendars change and speech changes—does Middle-earth change as well?"

"Of course. Rivers carve gorges, rain erodes mountains. Arda is forever being altered."

"Ada, I meant something more—substantial. Can a land that was in one place slowly move so that it arrives somewhere else, as if it were somehow—drifting?"

"My son, you are forgetting your history," Elrond gently chided him. "The shape of Arda changed from the First Age to the Second and then from the Second to Third. Some land masses were created, others vanished, and others remained but shifted. Islands appeared and disappeared. You have studied the fall of Númenor, have you not?"

"Yes, Ada, but that was a long time ago. Does the earth still alter, perhaps as imperceptibly as the days shift in relation to the seasons?"

"It is possible, my son. Certainly anyone who travels a far distance encounters peculiarities that make one suspect that two distant lands must have once been connected—as if one were to cross an ocean and discover a far shore where the rocks are exactly like those found at one's point of departure. I knew an elf who sailed two months to the west and discovered such rocks. He brought back an outline of that distant shore that was the mirror image of the shore whence his voyage originated—as if the two separate shores were two pieces of the same puzzle. Does this trouble you, my son?"

"Not anymore," Anomen replied. "I was merely curious. Calendars change, but slowly; speech likewise changes slowly, as does Middle-earth. I reckon one may become accustomed to slow changes."

"Indeed, one may even become accustomed to sudden changes," smiled Elrond. "An earthquake may alter the landscape substantially, but after one has recovered from the shock, one adjusts. I believe that the only change that would be ruinous would be a fundamental alteration in the climate. Should the world abruptly become warmer, for example, our crops should fail, our water sources should dry up, and we should be forced to depart at once for Valinor. For men, alas, the case would be worse, for they have only Middle-earth and no other refuge."

"Should they perish?" asked Elladan.

"I believe it likely," Elrond said, "or at least they would be much reduced in number and would be forced to live meanly. But come," he said briskly. "I cannot imagine what would bring about such a calamitous change. Let us ready for the New Year confident that we may continue to rely upon our land's moderate rainfall and temperate sunshine. Off you go to the training field whilst I supervise the final preparations for our festivities. By the by, did you know that Mithrandir has been compounding fireworks that he means to set off at midnight—or as near to midnight as our imperfect calculations permit us to determine?" Here he winked at the elflings. This was an unusual gesture on his part, and it provoked giggles. Now indisputably happy, the young elves hurried to the training field, where they hit the centers of their targets more often than not, and did not hit Glorfindel's seat even once.

Gandalf did indeed compound the most remarkable fireworks for that year's celebration. Under a moonless and clear sky, they were more than usually brilliant. Horses galloped across the sky, snakes slithered, and dragons flew, spitting fire directly above the heads of the delighted audience. The explosions were so thunderous that Anomen felt their vibrations through the soles of his feet. 'Miniature earthquakes', he said to himself, grinning. 'I wonder if Rivendell will shift an inch one direction or another'.

Only two elves were not entirely happy. One was Figwit, who, eager to assist, ran up to Mithrandir bearing a taper. The unfortunate elf dropped the lit candle into a stack of fireworks and set off some goblin-barkers, one of which pursued him around and around the clearing, until, its powder nearly exhausted, it broke into pieces and showered him with sparks, setting the seat of his leggings on fire. He wasn't injured, but he had to back into the Hall, his hands cradling his bottom.

The other elf who was not entirely happy was Elrond. Soon after Gandalf sent his first rocket into the air, the skin under Elrond's blue-stoned ring began to itch. Around and around Elrond twisted Vilya, the Ring of Air, but he could not rid himself of his discomfort. Anxiously, he peered up at the sky, but it remained cloudless. Gradually, however, the sky began to fill with smoke from Mithrandir's shells. The smokier the air grew, the more Elrond's finger ached. "What may this presage?" Elrond wondered, but although he racked his brain, no answer occurred to him.

At length, after Gandalf had sent a cavalcade of animals flying, galloping, crawling, slithering, loping, and scampering across the sky, his last shell exploded with an earsplitting bang, and across the sky cantered an imaginary animal, a silvery unicorn. The elves cried out in delight at this graceful vision, and then, as the smoke began to dissipate, murmuring and singing softly they drifted toward their dwellings, having seen in the New Year in a memorable fashion. As to Elrond's discomfort, it too dissipated, and whatever this omen may have presaged, it would be many centuries before anyone might guess. For now, the earth slept quietly, and so did the elves.


End file.
